Page 92 of Midnight Conquest

Davina chuckled, caught off guard by the playful confession. “You?”

“Oui!Broderick is a very talented artist,non? He painted a picture of me in my youth.”

Davina stopped chewing, the revelation striking her with surprise. She swallowed the bite of bread she’d taken, blinking. “Broderick painted that?”

Amice nodded proudly, stirring her stew with her bread. “He also painted those wooden tablets I have shown you.”

Davina gasped softly, recalling the intricate images on the fortune-telling tablets Amice had used during their last visit. “He is very talented. You must be proud of your son.”

Amice’s eyes widened before she burst into laughter. “My son? Oh,non,chérie.” She scooted forward to refill her bowl, offering Davina more stew, which she declined. After filling her bowl a second time, she settled back with satisfaction, licking her lips. “I will tell you the story. We made camp along the coast of southern England, near a large city called Portsmouth. We did not camp within or too close to the city, for Gypsies are not welcome there.”

“Truly?” Davina frowned. “I cannot imagine you not beingwelcome, with all the variety of wares and entertainment you bring.”

Amice nodded with a knowing look, rolling her eyes. “Oh, there are many places we are not welcome.” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “The large town of Strathbogie being one of them. Especially after that horrible Black Death. So much distrust lingers. That is why we came to your little village. We make our parade through Strathbogie to announce our arrival, and those who do favor us come here. We are fortunate you are close enough for them to venture, yet far enough away for them not to bother us.”

“I see.”

Amice waved her bread as she continued. “Veronique was only four years old at that time and wandered off. I only turned around for a moment, and the child was gone! I searched the tents and vardos in the night. I asked the other people if they saw her, and then I heard her yelp—a quick, little cry, but I heard it well and good, and the sound froze my heart as I realized it had come from the water’s edge. Running as fast as my legs could carry me to the water, I screamed for help. Many Romani ran with me.”

Amice leaned forward and laid a hand on Davina’s forearm, her gnarled fingers surprisingly strong. Her voice dropped to a reverent whisper. “Before we reached the shore, this giant man rose from the water, carrying my little Veronique in his arms as she cried. Broderick was an angel rescuing her from a watery grave, and he has been with us since that day. He has most definitely become like a son to me through the years, though. That is why I call him so.”

“That’s a wonderful story,” Davina murmured, her voice soft with genuine wonder.

Though Amice’s tale painted Broderick in a far kinder light than the rogue she’d come to know, it peeled back a layer of his soul she had not expected. Now, she better understood Veronique’s glares and veiled resentment. The young girl was not Broderick’s niece after all but likely harbored tender feelings for him. No doubt Veronique knew of Broderick’s pursuit and saw Davina as the interloper. Well, the girl fretted over nothing. Davina had no intention of getting in her way.

When they finished eating, Davina helped Amice wash the bowls, her fingers tingling with lingering warmth from the hearty stew. The old woman led her around to the front of the wagon, where sunlight caught the vibrant colors painted across its panels.

“Help me with these,s’il te plaît,” Amice instructed. Together, they wrestled open a cleverly hidden cabinet. Davina gasped softly as she and Amice drew out four life-size portraits, each rendered in striking detail. Names were delicately carved into polished wooden plaques beneath each frame.

The resemblance was unmistakable. “Broderick’s family,” Davina breathed, her heart twisting.

“Oui,” Amice confirmed, her eyes dimming with sorrow. “All murdered by his rival clan, the Campbells.”

A chill ran through Davina at the name, dread settling in her chest like a stone. “I didn’t know,” she whispered, her gaze lingering on the painted faces, their expressions frozen in a moment of life now forever lost.

“The betrayal of his wife led to their deaths.”

Oh my God.This revelation cleaved through Davina, striking deeper than she cared to admit. It cast a stark light on how much she didn’t know about Broderick—how many shadows lingered in his past, and maybe some insight into the carefree rogue he’dbecome. But where was he from? Such brutal clan wars were not so common these days, especially in this part of the country. The Crown had long since declared private battles unlawful, leaving justice to the king’s courts.

“His mother,” Amice said, pointing to one portrait. “His father, and these were his younger brothers.”

Davina’s gaze lingered on the first painting. Moira MacDougal stood proud, her fierce gaze burning from the canvas with undeniable intensity. Her eyes, golden brown rather than Broderick’s emerald green, held the same unyielding fire. Ebony hair tumbled over her right shoulder, contrasting against the vivid red, green, and pale blue plaid of Clan MacDougal.

Davina took in the masculine cut of Moira’s garments—a bold, defiant choice. Courage radiated from her, an untamed force captured in paint. Davina imagined the scoffs this woman must have endured, knowing full well how men scorned such brazen strength in a woman. And yet, Moira stood undaunted, daring the world to challenge her. Davina felt a flicker of admiration—and understanding. Perhaps this explained why Broderick seemed unbothered by her own spirit. He had been raised by a woman unafraid to wield her fire.

Her eyes shifted to the next portrait. Hamish MacDougal’s fiery russet hair blazed like a beacon, matching the proud set of his broad shoulders. The emerald of his eyes mirrored Broderick’s with uncanny precision, as did the angles of his face. He exuded authority, a man accustomed to having his will obeyed without question. Davina couldn’t stop a wry snort.Like father, like son.

She stepped closer to the third painting, labeledMaxwell MacDougal. Midnight-black hair swept down to Maxwell’s shoulders, framing his cut features. His brown eyes twinkledwith a playful glint, one dark brow arched in subtle humor—an expression Davina recognized all too well. Maxwell must have inherited that devilish smirk from his brother. His hands rested upon the pommel of his sword, the blade’s tip planted firmly between his feet. Confidence radiated from him, a man ready to meet life’s challenges head-on.

Finally, her gaze fell uponDonnell MacDougal. His features were gentler, favoring Moira’s, with soft waves of golden-red hair brushing past his ears in a style that seemed outdated. His sea-green eyes held a quiet solemnity, lips pressed in a thoughtful line. He stood tall, hands clasped behind his back, sword sheathed at his hip. There was a dignity to his bearing that tugged at Davina’s heart.

As she studied their clothing—tunics and plaids that looked at least two or three decades out of date, perhaps more—a gnawing curiosity coiled in her chest. Davina narrowed her eyes, her gaze flitting from their garments back to their faces, her mind piecing together a puzzle that felt older than she’d expected.

“Broderick painted these,” Amice said with pride.

Davina stood in awe, staring at the details and emotions brought to life in the figures before her. She almost expected them to step off the canvas and greet her. The sheer realism left her speechless. It reminded her of the art she’d seen displayed at court in her youth—vivid, masterful, alive with feeling. So unlike the stiff, lifeless figures in the holy panels that adorned most churches. These were not symbols to be worshipped. These were people.

“Broderick has lost everyone important in his life,chérie. Because he opened his heart, he is afraid to love again, afraid to trust.”

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