Excerpt of Sweet Madness by Heather Snow

An excerpt from Chapter Thirteen, shortly after Gabriel has agreed to try one of Penelope's forms of therapy...

"I know that I said I was willing to do anything you suggested, but how exactly is this supposed to help?" Gabriel asked, eyeing Penelope skeptically.

It was mid–afternoon the following day and the two of them were alone in Somerton Park's long gallery. The massive high–ceilinged room was dotted with comfortable–looking tufted benches, chaise lounges, a walnut pianoforte and the occasional overstuffed chair. A fire crackled in the massive hearth, centered along the interior wall. The other side of the room boasted tall windows separated by scarcely a yard between them, and every available patch of wall space was covered with colorful portraits and landscapes in gilt frames of varying shapes and sizes.

But the only canvas that interested him at the moment was the blank one on the easel in front of him.

Penelope grinned at him as she removed the lid from a cylindrical earthenware container about the size of a large pumpkin.

"When I first started visiting the soldiers at the hospital, I really had no idea how to reach them." Dipping her hand into the pot, she withdrew a walnut–sized pouch and shook droplets of water from it until it stopped dripping. "Oftentimes we would just talk about our lives and interests. When they discovered I was an artist," she said, taking a pin and piercing the pouch, "they asked to see some of my work."

Red paint oozed out of the tiny hole she'd made, and the crisp tang of linseed oil reached his nose. Pen squeezed a dollop onto a wooden palette and then plugged the hole with a tack before placing the bladder of paint back into her container.

"After some great discussions of art, the men wanted a demonstration, so I did some painting for them." She withdrew another bladder and pricked it, this time eliciting a bright green. "Then I encouraged them to try, and over a period of weeks, I discovered some interesting things."

Green was replaced by yellow. "I already knew, you see, that the very act of painting made me feel better. I'd been pouring out my emotions onto the canvas since I'd picked up my first paintbrush. Thankfully"—she flashed him an eye–rolling grin—"the melodramatic canvases of my youth have long since been destroyed."

Blue paint now joined the others on the wood. "Anyway, as the men created their own works, I started noticing symbolism in some. Others were able to externalize their emotions through their art, and once they were on the canvas, separate themselves from the feelings enough to talk about them." Purple joined the mix. "And for some, painting simply improved their moods enough to make it through their day."

He crossed his arms and lowered his chin. "You expect me to . . . paint my feelings?"

She smiled and added another color to the palette. "I have a theory that the mere act of creating puts us in a place of positive emotion. Sometimes we can gain insight simply by observing what we've created. And I believe that sometimes the artistic process can bring feelings to the forefront for us to see, even when it is not our intention. Once we can view those feelings objectively, we are free to abolish them as we see fit." One last dollop, white this time, and she placed the lid back on her pot.

Setting the palette on the table near the easel, she reached for brushes, fanning the sable hairs with her fingers. "Liliana wants me to prepare a paper on my findings, though if I did, I expect it would be laughed out of the Royal Society before they even read the title. Imagine me, trying to pretend that I'm brilliant."

He looked at her, gathering art supplies and speaking passionately about the ways she'd discovered to relieve others' suffering—men like him. Didn't she see that she was brilliant? But even more, she was compassionate and kind. All of the intelligence in the world would be fruitless without those higher qualities that Penelope had in abundance.

But that seemed too deep for the moment, so he just repeated dryly, "You expect me to paint my feelings."

She pursed her lips, but the corners of her mouth tipped up in a smile despite her efforts to look stern. "It might do you good to try, you know."

He snorted, uncrossing his arms and stepping closer to the easel. "I haven't an artistic bone in my body."

Pen slipped a smock over her dress. "Everyone has a spark of creativity within them," she protested.

"Not me. I am utterly unimaginative, I assure you."

She raised a blond brow as she tied her strings. "I'm certain we could find something to inspire you."

Gabriel's breath caught in his throat. Pen had already turned her attention to readying her brushes and wasn't looking at him at all. He knew she hadn't meant her words to imply anything, but as he watched her graceful movements, he thought, You, Pen. You could inspire me to do whatever you wanted. He'd paint if she desired it. He'd burst into song. Hell, he'd build her a bloody temple with his bare hands if she wished it, chiseling every stone himself. With a spoon.