Mrs. Hanson gave her a warm greeting and gladly agreed to fulfill her request for a sandwich to go, after Francesca explained she was going out to the gardener’s cottage to sketch. Work would help to focus her . . . ground her.
The housekeeper far surpassed her expectations, packing her a sack filled with an enormous chicken salad sandwich, fruit, two scones, a carton of milk, homemade oatmeal cookies, and a thermos of coffee and cream. Not wanting to run into Ian while she was feeling so frayed, she asked Mrs. Hanson to pass a message to Anne that she planned to work through lunch.
She kept repeating that conversation with Anne in her head as she sat at the picture window in the cottage and sketched later that morning. She realized she was willfully resisting what Ian’s grandmother had said. If she accepted Anne’s logic, she wouldn’t only have to sacrifice her anger at Ian for leaving. She’d have to own her helplessness in dealing with his pain.
She’d have to admit there was nothing she could tangibly do to ease Ian’s suffering but allow him to continue on this path.
That, she realized, was not an easy thing to allow.
Perhaps her anxious thoughts were the reason she was so dissatisfied with her preliminary sketches of Belford. What she outlined on the page shared little in common with the house she’d come to know, conveying a cold, austere, dead shell versus the warmth and proud tradition she was beginning to respect and love.
She ripped out the page from her sketchbook and crumpled it up in a fit of frustration. Impulsively, she grabbed her coat, then her sketchbook and pencils and headed out the front door of the cottage.
* * *
Ian stood on the threshold of the cottage entrance, tensing in wariness when he received no answer to his call. He scanned the room rapidly, taking in the dying fire and the crumpled sketch lying not far from the chair Francesca had scooted next to the window.
“Francesca?” he called again, his alarm rising. He sensed the cottage was empty, but perhaps she was just avoiding him, angry as she’d been earlier. He stalked through the kitchen and then down the hallway, peering into the empty bathroom. He’d prefer she was there, hiding from him. At least that would mean she was safe and unharmed.
The bedroom, too, was empty.
“Francesca?” he bellowed, his mind flying to dire possibilities, the very hint of which made his blood turn to ice water. He started at the sound of the front door slamming shut.
“Ian?”
His eyes sprang wide, relief coursing through him at the sound of her breathless voice. He began to walk out to meet her, but paused on the threshold of the bedroom when he saw her coming down the hallway.
“Where were you?” he demanded, backing into the room so that she could enter. The hall was dim, while the bedroom was sunlit. He peered at her face anxiously, searching for signs of distress. She carried her sketchbook under her arm and fisted a pencil in her gloved hand. Her nose and cheeks were pink from cold, but she appeared to be perfectly fine.
“I went into the woods a way to sketch Belford through the trees. I wasn’t far. I could hear you shouting.”
“You shouldn’t have wandered off like that. I didn’t know where you were.”
“Obviously, the way you were yelling,” she said. He was so relieved that she was all right—not abducted or wounded or worse—that it took him a moment to notice her small smile. He blinked, sure he was mistaken at what he saw. He hadn’t seen that particular, familiar expression of fond amusement for a long, long time.
He exhaled slowly. “Grandmother told me you sent word through Mrs. Hanson that you’d be out here. I’d prefer to know when you go out. In fact, I’d prefer that you weren’t out in the grounds alone at all,” he said, still studying her expression through narrowed lids, still wary of her mood.
She shrugged and went over to the desk to set down her sketchpad and pencil. She approached him again, taking off the fingerless gloves and unbuttoning her coat. He caught a glimpse of a dark red T-shirt that fitted her narrow waist and full breasts tightly.
“Well? I’m not alone now,” she said, her brows quirked upward in what he could only describe as a challenging expression.
“No . . . but for future reference,” he said gruffly. He studied her for a moment, searching for more clues, but she just watched him calmly.
“I wanted to speak with you this morning about something in particular,” he said uneasily.
“I’m sorry about the way I behaved.”
He blinked at her simple apology. “I wasn’t planning on harassing you about . . .” He paused uncomfortably, not wanting to put into words her upset over the reason he’d been determined to go to France. He cleared his throat. “What happened between us this morning,” he sufficed. “I’ve been talking things over with Lucien, my grandparents and Gerard. They agree it would be a good idea for me to do a small press conference tomorrow afternoon here at Belford, just to announce our bid to buy Tyake and make it clear I was involved in the whole thing. I’ve contacted Lin, and she’s arranging everything. I think it’d be a good idea if you didn’t appear at the press conference, though. I’d rather keep you out of the public eye. Grandfather agrees.”
She took a step toward him. “You plan on returning to work?”
“Yes, more than I’d been working before anyway.” He met her stare. “I’m taking back control, Francesca.”
“And what of this other important mission . . . this . . . this discovering of yourself,” she said falteringly. He could tell she was guarding against sounding derisive at the concept, and he appreciated that. Still, he knew he needed to tread carefully with her.