"Katherine Kurtz - Adept 02 - The Lodge of the Lynx" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kurtz Katherine)

Smiling primly, the old man acknowledged their deference with a nod and a hand gesture and dismissed
them, waiting until they all had gone before lying back in his cushions to exult in private, and plan the further
exercise of his artтАж.

chapter one

THE silvery jingle of snaffles rang clear as sleigh bells in the frosty air of a fine November morning as two men
on horseback approached the crest of the wooded hill overlooking Strathmourne House. Sir Adam Sinclair's
grey thoroughbred pricked his ears and snorted softly at the scent of the stables below and would have
quickened his pace to a trot, had his rider not applied legs and reins with gentle firmness.
"Easy, Khalid. Walk," Adam said.
The big gelding crested and tried a few tentative, prancing steps in piaffe, all but floating just above the
ground, then settled back to a resigned, sedate walk, as if there had never been any difference of opinion
between horse and rider. The second rider, a younger man with gilt-bronze hair and gold-rimmed spectacles,
chuckled aloud at the sheer artistry of the partnership.
"Ah, the master's touch," he remarked with a grin. "He really is an exceptionally fine animal, Adam. You
must let me capture the pair of you on canvas one of these days - perhaps something along the lines of that
study of your father and his grey hunter in your drawing room." He cocked his head appraisingly at the older
man.
"What about it? Shall I do you an equestrian portrait for Christmas?"
The question elicited a companionable chuckle and a pleased smile from Adam.
"Do you think your painting hand is up to the strain? If so, there's nothing I'd like better!"
Peregrine Lovat lifted his gloved right hand from the reins of his own mount, a blood-bay mare with a silken
mouth and a coquettish disposition, and flexed the leather-clad fingers so that Adam could see them.
"Oh, not to worry on that account," he said cheerfully. "My hand's virtually good as new, thanks to your
exacting supervision of the repair job. As a matter of fact, I've been back at my easel for nearly a week now,
and haven't had more than an occasional twinge."
"All the same, I wouldn't overdo," Adam cautioned. "It was a nasty laceration that might have ended your
painting career once and for all. I'd hate to think you might yet jeopardize it through impatience."
Peregrine set his hand back on the reins, all at once very conscious of the protective bandage under the glove
that he continued to wear when engaged in strenuous or dirty activities. The circumstances of the injury itself
still gave him cause to cringe, whenever he thought about it too long. Sword cuts were not exactly common in
this day and age. But in fact, it was precisely the sharpness of his recollection that had prompted him to take
up his paints and brushes so quickly, as soon as the sutures were out and he felt able to hold a brush
properly again. He bit at his lip thoughtfully, trying to find words to explain his recent sense of compulsion.
"It isn't really impatience," he told Adam. "Perhaps I pushed myself a little, but - well, this may sound a bit
odd, but the fact of the matter is, I didn't think I dared delay it. The - ah - studies I've been doing are all
connected with what happened at Loch Ness."
Adam gave him a sharp look from under his velvet riding cap. The two had met little more than a month ago,
but that initial, brief social acquaintance, sparked by professional concern, had led to an esoteric partnership
that was as welcome as it had been unexpected. Without Peregrine's unique and hitherto unsuspected
talents, employed both at Loch Ness and in the days leading up to it, the outcome might have been far less
satisfactory. The young artist might not yet understand a great deal about that part of his talent that went
beyond the mere artistic, but he was learning every day - and obviously had been busier than Adam
expected.
"I haven't yet dared to try that self-portrait you suggested," Peregrine said, guessing the possible direction of
his mentor's speculations. "Somehow, it's seemed more important, for now, to make a pictorial record of
everything I could remember about that night at Loch Ness. My recall of it seems to be somehow linked to
this cut on my hand - almost as if the wound itself is the very thing that ties me into that part of the affair.
Right after it happened," he continued, "all my mental impressions were crystal-clear, right down to the