Page 79 of Duke of Storme
“I’m rather occupied at the moment.” Finn didn’t look up from his correspondence, his quill scratching against parchment with unnecessary force. “Perhaps later.”
“I think not.” Diana stepped into the room uninvited, closing the door behind her with quiet finality. “Later, you’ll find another excuse. Later, you’ll be even more determined to avoid any conversation that ventures beyond estate business and the weather.”
Finn’s hand stilled on the paper. “Diana–”
“Two days, Finn.” She moved closer to his desk, noting the rigid set of his shoulders, the careful way he avoided meeting her gaze. “Two days of treating me like a stranger again. Two days of pretending that what happened during the storm–”
“It didn’t mean anythin’.” The words emerged flat and unconvincing.
Diana placed the wrapped package on his desk with deliberate precision. “Then perhaps this will mean nothing as well.”
Finn’s eyes flicked to the bundle, then back to his papers. “What is it?”
“Open it and see.”
“I don’t have time for–”
“Make time.” Diana’s voice carried a note of steel that made him finally look up, meeting her determined gaze across the polished mahogany surface. “Please.”
The single word, spoken quietly but with unmistakable resolve, seemed to catch him off guard. Finn set down his quill and reached for the package with reluctant fingers.
“Diana, if this is some attempt to–”
“It’s a gift,” she interrupted simply. “Nothing more, nothing less. Though I suppose your reaction to it will tell me everything I need to know about where we truly stand.”
Finn’s hands hesitated on the leather binding. “Where we stand?”
“Whether you’re capable of accepting something offered freely, without conditions or expectations.” Diana settled into the chair across from his desk, her brown eyes steady on his face. “Whether you can allow someone to care about you without immediately building higher walls to keep them out.”
Finn’s jaw tightened, but he began unwrapping the package with careful, methodical movements. The leather fell away to reveal a beautifully bound book, its cover embossed with subtle gold lettering that simply read: “For Finn.”
“Diana, what–”
“Open it,” she said softly.
Finn lifted the cover, and his breath caught audibly. The first page contained a carefully mounted sketch – one of his own childhood drawings but cleaned and preserved with obvious care. It was a simple drawing of Storme Castle but rendered with the hopeful eyes of a boy who still believed home could be a place of safety and warmth.
“Where did ye get this?” His voice had gone rough.
“In the tower room.” Diana watched his face carefully, noting the way his fingers traced the edge of the drawing with unconscious reverence. “They were deteriorating, Finn. Some of the pages were already damaged by damp.”
He turned to the next page, then the next. Each one contained another rescued drawing – childhood sketches of Highland landscapes, portraits of servants who’d been kind to him, studies of birds and flowers that spoke of a boy who’d found beauty even in harsh circumstances.
“Ye had no right,” Finn said quietly, though he couldn’t seem to stop turning pages. “Ye had no right to take these.”
Diana leaned forward slightly. “I’m your wife, Finn. That makes me the keeper of your history as much as your future. And this history – these drawings – they’re proof of something your father tried very hard to destroy.”
“What’s that?”
“That you were born with the capacity for wonder. For finding beauty in difficult places. For hope.” Diana’s voice remained gentle but unwavering. “These sketches show a boy who believed the world could be beautiful, despite everything he’d already endured.”
Finn reached a page that made him go very still. It was a drawing of his mother, or at least his attempt to capture her from the portrait he’d studies so often as a child – a woman with kind eyesand gentle hands, drawn with the yearning of someone trying to imagine what her love might have felt like.
The words sent warmth spiraling through Diana’s chest, but she forced herself to remain focused on what came next. “Turn the page.”
Finn complied, revealing a section of the book that was clearly Diana’s own work. Here, she’d carefully mounted some of his more recent sketches – drawings she’d seen him working on when he thought no one was watching. Studies of the castle staff, Highland landscapes captured during his morning rides, and there, near the end, several sketches of herself.
“When did ye...” Finn’s voice trailed off as he stared at a drawing he’d made of Diana in the garden. Her face was turned toward the sun with an expression of quiet contentment.
