How to explain something she barely remembered. “My parents brought me to the Zhong family head, the local mandarin. What you would call the local lord. I became servant to their young daughter.”
“Were you paid for this job?”
“I was fed and dressed. If there was payment, it went to my parents.” Her body softened slightly in memory. “They were happy years. The Zhong first daughter was kind.”
He held up his hand. “I don’t need to hear more. You were treated as a slave, and now you think you are one here. You are not. You can speak your mind, you can walk in the sun, you can spend your coin however you wish.”
“You mean, I can paint for you.”
“Yes! But not for me. For you. Whatever you want.”
He watched her closely, clearly hoping to see her change her mind. He wanted her to say, yes, sir, I will happily give my heart away! She clenched her jaw in denial. The tiger man might eat her, but he would not take her soul. And so she remained as impassive as a blank slate while in her mind, she drew dark slashes of restraints around him and an impenetrable wall between them. It was enough to hold her still while he waited as a great cat would.
In the end, he nodded.
“I understand. You are free to do whatever you want.”
“Do I check the account books?”
“Yes. But only until Mrs. Hocking comes. That was the arrangement I made with Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Afterwards you may walk the moors, dance in the sun, sing to the trees.”
Or paint.
And when she put brush to paper, he would lie in wait, stalking her and her art until he could take it for himself. Was she to give up everything in this life?
Not this. Her paintings were her own. She would walk in the sun, she would see this strange land, but she would not paint.
With that decision made, she curtsied to him. “I will start on the ledgers now.”
He nodded and waved her away. She began her work. She felt calmer once the abacus settled in her hand. The familiar sound of her calculations helped her relax. But not even the steady march of numbers could erase his two eyes from her thoughts.
Honey green tiger eyes that stalked her soul.
Chapter Seven
“She doesn’t havea last name. I spent an entire day calling her by the wrong name, and now what am I supposed to do? She doesn’t even have a last name!” Daniel paced in front of his sister-in-law, his body tight, his hands searching for something to do as he alternately clenched them or fiddled with his watch. The idea of a woman without a last name was so appalling to him that he’d rushed from the castle rather than vent his anger anywhere around Miss…er…Li-Na.
Nessie pursed her lips as her gaze watched him cross and recross the parlor. They were in her private room at the inn where she and her sons were residing while the manor home was repaired. It was a plain room with sturdy floors and hard chairs. But she seemed comfortable enough, as did her son, Joseph, where he sat in the corner playing blocks. Daniel, on the other hand, paced about the room.
“Why don’t you ask her what she wants to be called? You can’t really be blamed for not knowing her name if she doesn’t tell you it.”
Daniel paused and frowned at the woman. “Yes, of course, I will ask her. I was too angry at the time to worry about…” He dropped his hands on his hips. “Nessie, that’s not at all what I’m angry about.”
“Forgive me. What exactly is the difficulty?”
“She doesn’t act like a person. She’s always standing with her head bowed and her hands clasped.”
“Of course, she does. She’s a servant! Really, Daniel, you seem remarkably unsettled.”
“I assure you, no servant of mine has ever acted like a statue.”
“Well, you’re unusually free with your people. It’s one of the more unsettling things about you. I blame your travels.”
He sighed. Yes, he knew that any odd aspect in his personality was blamed on his travels. No one thought that perhaps he travelled because Cornwall was especially stifling to a younger son. “I’m aware that Peder thought it wasn’t respectable.”
His sister-in-law waved that aside. “It isn’t respectable, but Peder also pointed out that you provide work for those normally unfit for service.” She glanced to the side of the room where her eight-year-old son Joseph organized blocks in a long straight row. He was the sweetest boy Daniel had ever known, but there was no denying he was different. He had soft, flat features and his intelligence did not match his peers’. Even now at eight years old, he did not speak beyond a grunt or whistle. He was nonetheless loved by all, most especially his mother, though she clearly worried what was to become of him.
“About Joseph—” Daniel began, but Nessie obviously didn’t want to talk about him. She interrupted as if she’d never stopped speaking.