Read Averill: Historical Romance (The Brocade Collection, Book 3) for Free Online Page A

belonged to foreign women with nothing to occupy themselves .
    Averill leaned over far enough to pull a small canvas from one of the packs . She might be able to work around the camel’s motion. She strained to reach her brushes and paints, careful to get out only the things she needed. She’d have to blend on her canvas, but that was no hardship. She added umber and charcoal together, making a mixture for the captain’s horse. When she finished, the color was more like the captain’s hair. She didn’t waste time pondering it. She began.
    The sun beat down on her head, but Averill didn’t notice . She had the perfect blend for the sand below and the sky above. The colors were so real, she could almost taste them. She felt the texture of the sand and the heat from the sun simply by looking at what she was putting on canvas.
    She glanced up occasionally, blinking to refocus her eyes before returning to her work. She couldn’t keep away for long. It was like the picture was calling to her, showing the image she wanted. It seemed emblazoned in her mind, long before it became painted reality.
    “Your luncheon, miss.”  One of the men rode up and spoke to her.
    She glanced at him without comprehending his words . Go away , she thought . You’re interrupting.
    He left after a while, but she didn’t notice . He could’ve stayed all afternoon, and she wouldn’t have noted it. All the sight, sound, and taste she could experience were incorporated in the small canvas balanced on her knee. The sun blazing down on her head came into being right before her eyes on her canvas. Sand dunes grew before her, some larger than others, some undulating with heat, some shifting into waves of emptiness. The desolation tore at her heart, making her eyes water.
    She wiped them away with her sleeve, the motion covering more of her cloak with the colored mixture . The picture tugged at her, making her feel melancholy and sad and drained. It wasn’t a serene picture. It was emotionally moving. It was far removed from the painting she’d been planning when she’d started, too.
    “Averill,” Captain Tennison said from somewhere . “I heard you refused your noon repast. You’ll fall from your camel if you don’t...Good God!”
    His oath got her attention . Averill turned her face away. The experience was too vivid to share.
    “Let me see it.”  He tugged the canvas from her nerveless fingers. “I’ve never seen such a rendition. I’m speechless.”
    She turned back, taking in how wide his eyes were and the look of awe on his face. “You like it?” 
    “Do I like it ? I already told you, I’m speechless. No one will doubt your cover, and the reason for your presence. You possess great talent. Did you know that?”
    She didn’t say anything . She couldn’t. The look in his brown eyes was full of wonder. She’d never seen anything to compare.
    “May I take this?” 
    His mouth moved with the words. Averill reasoned out what he said, since she couldn’t seem to hear him over the beat of her own heart.
    “It’s not finished,” she answered.
    “That doesn’t matter. I don’t want anything to happen to it.”
    He didn’t wait for her answer . He took one more look at the canvas he held. Averill watched him do it. And then he rode back to the front of the column with the picture in one hand. Shortly afterward they called a halt. She wondered when the sun got so low in the sky. Her hands were smudged with the dun color she’d been creating, and she clucked her tongue. She was forever covered with filth.
    “Down, Pegasus.” 
    She kneed the camel, and raised both eyebrows as it actually obeyed. Then she was off, stiffly moving to dig out her solvent bottle, to pour a small amount onto her brushes, kneeling to clean them. The solvent also worked on her fingers. Colors swirled away, blending the blues and tans into the colors of the black delta. She felt exactly like the new color looked. Tired. Dark. Dirty. She watched in