Page 124 of Her Beast

“It’s very kind of you to give gifts to orphans, Malcolm.”

Malcolm ignored her—and the uncomfortable heat in his face—and stared down at the package, turning it around and around in his hands.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

He looked up. “I didn’t get you anything.”

Her eyes widened and then she laughed.

The sound punched him in the chest, driving the air from his lungs. She was a marvel, every single thing about her was beautiful, even the sound of her laughter.

“What do you call this?” She gestured to the gown she wore.

He laughed, although the sound was more of a drowning man’s breathless gasp. “That’s another gift for me,” he assured her gruffly, allowing his eye to wander her body yet again, since she’d invited him to do so.

“All you’ve done is give me gifts since the day I woke up here,” she said. “Please, open my present.”

As Malcolm tore into the paper, he tried to recall the last time he’d opened a gift on Christmas and couldn’t.

Not since me, Mal, Sukey whispered, the sound faint and sad.

That was true. The last person to give him anything for Christmas had been his wife.

The paper fell away and fluttered to the floor and Malcolm stared, utterly entranced.

It was a painting—of him.

He was sitting in the greenhouse and he recognized the bench—there were six total, each one a little different—and knew it faced the bay leaf tree which was a favorite resting spot for the finches.

The painting showed him full face, which would have meant that the painter was up on a limb with the birds.

His pose was relaxed and he was looking directly ahead, wearing a faint smile and looking… content.

“The hands were easy.”

He looked up at the soft words.

“Because they are gloved,” she explained. “Remember? I told you—”

“That you couldn’t paint hands.”

She looked pleased that he’d remembered, as if he didn’t remember every look and word.

“How did you paint this? I mean, did you see me there?” he asked, stammering over the words.

“I saw you talking to the gardener—Mr. Bobbit—one afternoon. And when he left, you sat for a moment.”

“And where were you?”

“I hid because I didn’t want to disturb you. You looked so peaceful.”

Now that she’d mentioned Bobbit, Malcolm recalled the day. The fussy gardener had come to his office to nag him, insisting that Malcolm come and look at some plant rot or fungus. Exasperated, but amused, Malcolm had put aside his work and gone to look at the problem. And then he’d told the man what he’d already told him once: do what you think is best.

Once Bobbit had left, he’d sat for a moment, thinking about Julia and how Kemp said she spent a great deal of time in the hothouse. One thought had led to another and he’d wrestled with himself, yet again, about whether or not to spy on her.

Malcolm smiled, amused that she’d painted him while he’d been thinking abouther.

“Why are you smiling?”

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