The Artists Muse 1

Chapter One

Chateau Bertrand, Paris, 1795

From the shadows, Roland Bertrand watched the young woman paint onto a canvas with delicate strokes. His library was illuminated by tapers, and they cast a soft glow on the dark- skinned beauty who was immersed in her art. She was now focusing on the figures, but from the distance, Roland could not make out the exact nature of the scene. No doubt this painting will be a gift from my brother, thought Roland, drawing closer to the woman. The candle light flickered against the library window, and her silhouette cast an exquisite curve against the wall.

Roland's gaze was torn between looking at the finely-wrought painting and the artist. Judging from the exotic dark skin and ornate costumes of the figures, the painting seemed to be a mythical scene of the god and goddess Baron La Croix, Haitian deities of love and lust. The painting drew him to her. Roland took in the artist's exposed décolletage, in the moonlight her skin was radiant and smooth as a creamy dark calfskin. He longed to run his fingers over her neck, her jaw, through her hair that glinted against the soft lighting of the candle. She wore a dress of fine lace and blue silk that accented her womanly curves. He bent over her and whispered, "Explicit detail." Although it was just a whisper of breath across her flesh, she jumped a little on her stool and Roland could see that her skin flushed with his comment.

The perspective that this ravishing artist had chosen clearly illustrated the goddess in a pose of wanton relaxation; her thighs were rotund and soft all at once. Her lips were half-open in an expression of ecstasy and excitement. The expanse of Baron La Croix's muscled back was not fully finished; maybe the artist blushed at her lack of knowledge of male anatomy.

"Baron La Croix's behind is..." Roland started to say.

"Don't say it," she countered in a firm voice.

"Why not?" "Because I know that you will say it's unformed, poor and crude."

"I wouldn't say that exactly," he paused taking in the way her dark eyes widened and then roamed over his body as if evaluating a fine sculpture, "but I could advise that you might want to take some lessons en plein air. You might complete some studies of the male nude to gain a better perspective for your work," he offered, as if he was not distracted when she wet her lips and smiled. That unconscious lick of her full lips made him feel hard in places where he had not felt that need in a long time.

"And I was going to complement you on your fine rendering of this young goddess. Her breasts look so soft, like peaches, that one could reach out and stroke them," his voice becoming husky. He could feel her warm breath on his hand as he reached out and placed a finger near to the wet flesh on the canvas.

"Sometimes the goddess has that effect," she said in her rhythmic French, smiling at him. Roland immediately recognized her accent from the West Indies.

"Careful, her skin is lush."

"Don't worry," he said as he took his hand away from the canvas, "I never touch a painting before it's finished, it's bad luck."

"Well thank you, Monsieur..." she paused.

"Let me introduce myself," he said, placing a kiss on her hand and taking in her voluptuous curves, "my name is Roland Bertrand, I am the owner of this chateau, returned from travels abroad. Enchanté."

"Roland, it is a pleasure to meet you I am sure," she let his name roll off her tongue, her fluid accent driving his body desperate to touch her. "I am Letitia Dumas, commissioned by Monsieur Jacques Bertrand to paint your portrait," she said her smile widening to reveal a set of pearly teeth that glinted a beautiful white in the darkness.

"While I appreciate your compliments," she paused and then her tone became firm,

"I have neither the finances nor the time to take on such an activity nor would it be perfectly respectable for a woman to request such lessons from a man." Her voice went up a note like onto a sharp ledge.

"Respectability, is that not just a matter of perspective?" he questioned her, his voice like a caress.

He moved closer and pressed himself up against her back, placing his hands on her shoulders. He rolled his thumbs over her smooth dark skin and massaged her for a moment.

"Just what do you think you are doing, touching me there?"

"Where, here?" he said and then moved his hands to work the stiff tension in her neck.

"Yes, there," she let out a soft sigh as his fingers pressed into her smooth skin around her shoulders. While her body felt tense under his ministrations, he was rewarded with seeing her nipples harden in response to his touch. The curved peaks pressed against the soft lace of her gown. He wanted to lick them, feel her soft curves pressed up against his body.

"Excuse me Roland. While it has been very nice to meet you, I must get to my chamber." She scooted the chair back and it made a scraping sound on the dark wood floor. Grabbing her palette and brushes, she left her easel. "Adieu," she said. But, he grabbed her arm before she was out of reach. He brought her into his embrace.

Pressed against his hard body, he could feel the way that her curves melded into his hard form. Her gaze met his eyes as she traced his face, from the smooth scar over his right eye to his mouth. She brushed her thumb over his lip and let it linger there as if tracing the contours of a globe, drawing a frission of energy that surged through his body.

He grasped her hand in his and said, "I am a keen patron of the arts, I pride myself on my connoisseurship, and you are like a magnolia, exotic, and rich in talent and beauty."

He ran his finger along her cheek, as if imprinting her face into his memory whispering, "I need visual stimulation and you could use some practice with portraying the male form." As if implying something not entirely gentlemanly, he smirked at her as he pulled her closer so that her hips met his.

She ran her hands up along his chest, and then broke from his grasp, turning her face to the doorway.

"Ah Letitia, I see you have met my brother Roland." Monsieur Jacques Roland announced as he entered the room.

"Yes," she said stepping back from Roland and turning towards her painting.

"Letitia, I trust that everything is comfortable for you here. Would you mind, I have to speak to my brother now," Jacques asked.

"Thank you Jacques, I have everything I need. Goodnight gentlemen." Her hips swayed with a delicious curve that Roland made note of as she went to her chamber.

"The West Indies don't hold the same charms as they once did?" Jacques asked and then taking note of Roland's silence continued, "She is talented, yes?" Roland caught his brother's smile and returned it.

"I hope you are not disappointed with my choice of artiste Roland. I expected you to come back in one month, so we are a little unprepared. She has already completed a striking portrait of me, and mother demands that you must have a portrait made as well."

"Indeed she is a talented artist," countered Roland,

"and beautiful" said Jacques,

"yes, she is," agreed Roland. "But I do not need a portrait done of myself. I have no use for it. I am, well," Roland paused and ran his hand over his face, remembering her touch and then fell silent.

"You have to put your past behind you Roland," counseled Jacques. "Besides, how will the Bertrand aristocracy be remembered if we are not on canvas? It is essential to our family honor." Roland considered all the tragedies that had sieged his family in the past few years and he agreed.

"All right, I agree, but I have one condition."

"That is between you and the artiste brother."   Chapter Two

Roland couldn't get the image of Letitia- illuminated by candle light, her rich long raven hair streaming down her back, her skin glowing in her blue nightdress - out of his memory. He decided to take a walk through the abandoned streets of Paris. A large corn moon hung in the sky, so close to Montmartre he felt he could almost reach out and touch it, so near it was to the horizon.

Walking through the streets, Roland remembered when King Louis was killed a few years past, there had been a great turmoil and upheaval all through France. Paris was rampaged by angry revolutionaries, its' narrow alleys ran with blood. Roland being from an aristocratic family, had tried to protect his mansion from the marauding crowds and the Jacobins who screamed revenge. Walking outside his chateau he saw the large grey stones of his childhood home still bore the marks of their fury, pieces chipped and stolen, smoldered by the fires that were set in the center of the city.

Roland ran his fingers over the scar on his face. The skin was smooth from the hot oil that the Jacobins had thrown in his face when he had tried to defend his house from the revolutionaries who demanded he give up his mansion to the common people. The Bertrand chateau, 23 bedrooms in total, had been in their family for generations and his blue-blood ran strong. He was never one to give up things easily, so he fought tooth and bone to keep his place. They had thrown the hot oil and started fires at the front of the house and while he was present, they had slit the throat of his wife. By the time he had gotten out, the entire front foyer was burning like a wildfire in the hot summer months.

Five years after the revolution, the city still felt like it was on the edge of a sword. Fires burned through the slums and coal smoke had darkened the cool grey walls of the aristocracy's mansions, most of whom had been beheaded in the revolts.

A few candles flickered in the slums as he strolled through, his shadow passing unnoticed. He loved the anonymity of the city, away from the dark memories of his mansion.

The unjustness of his past confronted him as he walked through the streets filled with so many happy memories that had turned into nightmares. He hadn't had the confidence to ask a woman to his bed in many years, but something had changed when he saw Letitia, the artist. Nothing brought fire back to his soul but when Letitia had had blushed under his gaze, he had started to feel like a man again, like someone could care about him. She was so creative and artistic. The painting that she had rendered was finely wrought, full of sexual promise that he felt stimulated just remembering it. Her naiveté with the male figure added to his passion for her.

The small storefronts that were in the Palais Royale were full of illuminated manuscripts and cheap satirical prints showing cartoon faces of aristocrats fondling livery maids. Roland had two passions in life, fine art and fine erotica. He entered the small shop and let his intuition guide him. It was one of his favorite haunts in the city. "Ah Monsieur Bertrand," the storekeeper greeted him with a friendly smile like a smirk. "Bon soir"

"Bon soir"

"Can I help you with anything tonight?" his voice reached out to him.

"No thank you Georges. I will just look around," Roland said without lifting his gaze to meet the shopkeeper.

His eyes scanned the political pages and new art manuscripts, the writings on liberty by Rousseau, and then filtered over to the more ornately-painted books and drawings. A book entitled "Society's Graces" caught his eye. The anonymous drawing on the cover of the work peaked his interest. He wondered. The pads of his fingers flickered through the drawings. The fluid lines of the artist seemed familiar but took him a few minutes to comprehend. It was none other than the artiste in his very household! With obsession overpowering him, he had to buy it. The pages brushed up against opening of his velvet jacket and he ran his fingers over it as if it was Letitia's cocoa-smooth skin.

"This one. It is very popular these past few weeks," said the shopkeeper. He then wrapped it in a fine piece of red velvet and black ribbon, curling the ends, making a fitting wrapping for a sensuous read.

"Enjoy."

"I will," whispered Roland as he pressed the velvet-wrapped book into his jacket, tucked into the waistband of his trousers. As if invigorated by the physical presence of Letitia's work, he walked with a quick step back to the darkened portal of his mansion and opened the front oak door, it squeaked in the silence of the city. A black silky-looking cat ran out from underneath the portal ledge, startled by the noise.

He leaned back on the settee in his room and drank a glass of burgundy, letting the full-bodied flavor complement the fully fleshed words and images that he was so thoroughly enjoying. He wet his lips with the wine, drawing a warm feeling into his core.

Looking at the images, he felt that he was beginning to know Letitia better. The figures of goddesses with full curvaceous form were beautifully rendered, their simple outfits barely restraining breasts and full hips. The story ended leaving him wanting more, desiring more.

The stairs creaked under his weight in the west wing of the old mansion, the wind shuttered the glass and he felt a cold chill as he entered her room. Hearing no sounds, he snuck in. While he felt entitlement to go into every room in his mansion, his forehead beaded with perspiration and his heart beat in his chest, the blood rushing in his ears.

At first glance, he didn't see where Letitia kept her art. The cherry wood writing desk was clear of material. Scanning the room, he saw a plain cedar chest near her bed. Glancing from side to side and waiting a few seconds, listening, he then crept over to the box and pried it open.

Inside there was a plethora of pens and loose-leaf paper. Drawings of men, mythical beasts, mermaids with long legs that were webbed, horses and centaurs seemed to permeate the pages. There was a drawing of several women swiveling their hips in a smoky room, a harem of women. A sheik sat upright on a large pillow, puffing on a hookah as his eyes glittered while the woman danced in the room. Gazing at the image, he could smell the shisha smoke in the room and hear the tinkling of the woman's coins on their dresses as their arms and bodies curved in snakelike rhythms.

The chiseled profile of Roland haunted Letitia's dreams. She couldn't sleep so she got up from her bed, threw on her night coat, and decided a walk through the herb gardens at the back of the chateau would give her relief. Her breath became steadier out in the garden, the scents of peony and bleeding hearts were sweet and fragrant. Lavender and wild chives tickled her nose. The moon hung low in the sky and Letitia felt she could almost touch it when she looked up. It illuminated the labyrinth of shrubs that grew in crooked shapes and uneven sizes at the back of the mansion.

The cool wind blowing through her hair was like a cold refreshing draught and she went up the stairs to her writing chamber with a renewed sense of purpose. Coming closer to her door, she noticed it was ajar.

The light from a candle glimmered and she could hear someone's heavy breathing, in fact, it reminded her of a similar noise she had heard the night before, she wondered. She saw his long dark locks first, drawing down onto his broad and powerful shoulders. His face in profile had a strong nose and high cheekbones, his lips full. His legs were clothed in supple buckskin that fit tightly to his thighs. His face was close to the page. To her page. Taking large breaths, she tried to cool her temper but she felt her blood rush hot through her veins. She longed to run her hands over his silk waistcoat, and feel his hard manhood through her nightgown, the way it was the night before.

"Pray, tell me, what gull you are up to?" she said, her voice quivering a little and then getting louder.

"Barging into my room like a Cod's head in the middle of the night! Your intentions are surely circumspect." The silence grew and then Roland turned to her.

"I never thought that such a young woman as you would draw such material. In fact you are an accomplished artiste of the erotic genre."

"How dare you accuse me of irrrepute! When I find you, in my chamber, in the middle of the night like a dark cully, perusing my private papers!"

"Don't take offence. I was enthralled with your work and had to see more, to see you," he said, his voice like a silken glove running over her anger. "I could not get enough," he said, holding up the copy he had bought in the store. He ran his fingers slowly over it.

"I have thoroughly enjoyed myself, looking at these papers as you so delicately called them, I would warrant that they might be described as smut at any School of Venus. Indeed, it seems you have taken lessons at a house such as that to make such fine illustrations in your books," insulting her, his haughty tone boiling her blood.

"I am no courtesan. I am an artist!" she huffed, all the while her hands had started trembling. Her body felt compelled to surrender to his large powerful hands and yet his words were so infuriating. She was glad she was not holding onto anything for Roland would see how nervous she was. How impudent he was being. What a lobcock!

She kept these thoughts to herself as she tried to determine how to rectify the situation. She could not afford to lose this position, if she did, she surely would never get another commission, especially from such an aristocratic family.

He got up from the ground, took a few steps closer to her and said in a deep voice, "I believe we never discussed our arrangement from last night. I think we can come to an agreement here that might be suitable for both of us." He seemed to adjust his arrogant tone and Letitia did not know whether to believe him or distrust his mercurial temper.

"I'm listening Roland," she said.

He shut the door of her chamber, barely making a sound. He started unbuttoning his waistcoat and then laid it on her bed. Peeling off his long white tunic, he revealed his tan broad chest and well-formed biceps. Letitia felt her jaw drop open in awe of his form and then caught herself and shut her mouth, but not before he met her gaze, his bright blue eyes smoldering with an intensity that reminded her of how his touch on her shoulders had set her body aflame. She could feel her mouth water at this man who resembled Adonis with his toned and tight body.

"I want a full body portrait," he said. "And only the left side of my face."

"And you are going to pose right now?" she said, feeling her pulse race as her eyes took him in.

"Clearly you weren't getting any sleep, so why not let me be your muse?" he winked at her and then placed his hands at his narrow waist; his iliac crest glistened like marble in her room.

"Muses come at the most unexpected of moments," she said and smiled at him. Picking up a piece of charcoal she waved her hand to the window and gestured for Roland to move over to where the candle light reflected off the glass. His skin glowed a molten bronze color against the dark walls of her room.

"Place your right leg on the chair and turn your whole torso toward me," she said. Roland complied, his body creating a twist of muscle and sinew that was breathtaking. The first few moments Letitia's hands quivered on the paper. While she had worked with female models before, she had never worked with a male model, nor one so attractive either. After a few circles and spheres of charcoal on the page, Letitia felt her rhythm and let her eyes take in the wondrous form of this man who was strong, powerful, and willing to do as she requested, at least for these few poses.

"Now touch your toes," she said and she took in the flex of his derriere as he turned at a slight angle to her. "Turn to the right, slightly, Roland."

"Yes Letitia," he said complying to meet her request. The more she drew him, conveying the complex curve and flex of his legs, abdomen and well-formed arms, the more she wanted to run her hands over his whole body, to truly appreciate his strength.