Improbable Eden by Mary Daheim Page A

Max. Having no wish to be caught invading his privacy, she tried the door opposite her own. The latch gave at once. Eden discovered that the furniture was covered in dust cloths and the draperies were tightly closed. There was a stale, musty smell, indicating that no one had used the room in a very long time.
    An easel stood in the middle of the floor holding a partially hidden canvas. Carefully Eden plucked at the cloth and found an unfinished portrait of what was probably a very beautiful blond woman. The curls were the color of honey, the eyes a brilliant blue. But the mouth was only sketched in, the nose a mere stroke and the rest a blank. Eden pondered her identity and wondered why the artist had given up his task. Preoccupied, she made her way out of the room and ran straight into Max.
    He was wearing a light gray riding cape and held his three-cornered hat in his hand. He wore no wig, and Eden wondered if he ever followed fashion.
    â€œ You’re in the wrong room,” he barked, taking an awkward step backward.
    â€œ I know,” she admitted. “I went exploring. I found an unfinished portrait in there. Who is she?”
    The high cheekbones darkened. “What idiotic questions! Why do you pry?”
    Eden shrugged, trying not to let Max know how much his volatile temper unnerved her. “I was restless, and it was too foul to go outside.” Her lashes dipped in apology. “Forgive me.”
    Max was having trouble controlling his emotions. The pulse in his jaw twitched, and his big hands played havoc with his hat. “You ought to be sorry,” he growled. “Why aren’t you studying something?”
    â€œ I was,” Eden replied defensively. “I was studying your house.” She watched his glower deepen and decided on a more placating approach. “The landscapes in that little parlor downstairs—they’re lovely. Who did them?”
    Max’s hands grew still and his voice became controlled, if tense. “One is by Abraham Storck. Another by Aert van der Neer, who died some years ago. They both have a genius for water scenes. The one with the skaters is mine.”
    â€œ Oh!” Eden clapped her hands together, ignoring Max’s disgruntled look. “But it’s wonderful! Those charming children and the dog running down the hill and the little village …. Wherever did you learn to do that, Max?”
    He was as oblivious as she to the use of his Christian name and was already swinging past her, the gray cape snapping at his calves. “It was merely a hobby.” One arm jutted toward the door to the vacant room. “Don’t go in there again. Ever.”
    â€œ Max!” she cried, distressed at his harsh words. She was even more jarred by the note of reproach in her own voice.
    â€œ Well?” He turned, still scowling.
    Eden swallowed hard and tried to strike a conciliatory note. “Did you find Captain Craswell?”
    â€œ No,” snapped Max. Why couldn’t the wench leave him alone? It was one thing to have her under his roof, but quite another for her to invade his life. She should have had the good sense to keep to her place. Instead, she strolled around his house, poked into his private rooms, scrutinized his paintings and acted if she had every right to treat him like an equal. That, Max knew, was the problem with comely lasses—they felt free to take advantage. But he was well-armored against such feminine onslaughts. “Craswell has disappeared into thin air,” he said in a less heated, if distant, manner. Perhaps he couldn’t treat her like kin; maybe he should act as if she were the enemy. Yet, he reflected, that was often what kinsmen were.
    â€œ How strange.” Eden put a hand to her hair, hoping Max would notice the transformation of her coiffure. “Maybe he was kidnapped,” she suggested.
    â€œ Of course he was!” Max started to turn away again.
    Eden’s hand froze