Chapter 9
The healer was a fierce-looking old lady with a pair of beady dark eyes whose stare seemed to go straight through whoever she was looking at.
She raised her eyebrows in surprise and not a little indignation when she saw the two of them together, and for a moment, she seemed quite nonplussed.
Clearly the sight of a maid and the Laird was not to her liking.
“My Laird, I am fine—truly,” Claire stuttered, a little intimidated. “Truly. Thank you.” She turned to leave, but Iain stopped her by grasping her wrist before she went through the door. He looked down into her eyes, and his expression was steely.
Do not argue with me, it said.
When Iain smiled at the old lady, her wrinkled face broke into an answering smile. “How are ye, M’Laird?” she asked pleasantly. “Anythin’ I can dae for ye?”
“Yes, Mary,” Iain replied. “Take a look at Claire’s hand, please.”
He stepped back and pulled up a chair for her. She sat down, feeling distinctly awkward under the penetrating gaze of the healer, and kept her gaze on the ground.
She was all too well aware that Iain had his hand on the back of her chair and was watching every move the old woman made.
He was so close that she could feel the heat of his body, smell his familiar musk.
His nearness was making her tremble with awareness, and she fidgeted as her hand was washed with warm wine, then the healer placed a pad of soft linen over it.
“Keep that there,” Mary instructed. “I am goin’ tae make a salve for this. Excuse me, M’Laird.” She left to go to the medicine room, where she mixed all her potions.
Claire looked up at Iain. “Thank you, my Laird, but this is just a little cut. I could have cleaned it up myself.”
“I know that,” he replied, “but I am the Laird here, and I want it done properly.” He laughed. “The healer will have nothing to do otherwise.”
He had been about to make a joke about the fact that he had paid a lot for her and wanted to get his money’s worth. At the last minute, however, he changed his mind, realising that such a jest would be in very poor taste and would likely hurt her feelings.
Claire felt herself beginning to tingle, to respond to his nearness in a way that she had never done with any other person, especially any other man, in her whole life. What was happening to her, she wondered?
Rose had told her about how she felt just before she and Cormac made love for the first time—but no. Rose and Cormac were in love. How could she, a girl who was only on the fringe of womanhood, have fallen in love with a man she hardly knew?
I am being swayed by a handsome face and a little kindness, she told herself. He deserves better than me. I cannot even scrub floors properly. What good would I be to a man like this?
Yet, Claire knew that was her head, her logical self, talking. Her heart, her body, the animal side of her, were thinking different thoughts entirely.
“Thank you for your help today,” Claire said. “I have no idea what I would have done if you had not come along. All those little plants would have died, and I would have been in trouble—again.”
She bowed her head in a deliberate attempt to avoid his eyes.
Iain frowned. “Again?” he asked, frowning. “Claire, what do you mean?”
Claire bowed her head and put her hand over her eyes. “My Laird,” she said huskily. “I would rather not say any more. I am learning what to do, and I’m sure after a while my life will become easier as I become better at my work.”
He looked at her for a moment, then a slow smile spread across his handsome face.
“You know, I was a warrior,” he told her, before he rolled up his sleeve and showed her a long white scar that ran from his elbow almost down to his wrist. “I practised for hours every day almost since the time I could walk. Yet, I still received this from a member of one of our rival clans. We are not perfect, Claire. Not one human being ever born is. I lived to fight another day, but I lost that battle.”
He tilted her chin up. “It takes practice and perseverance to achieve your goals, and I know you have plenty of that. Look how hard you tried to get your books and your writing materials, but you succeeded in the end.”
He reached out to brush a smear of dirt from her cheek, and she blinked in surprise. Those words were meant to advise her, but they were strangely comforting. Then she laughed softly.
“No, I did not, my Laird. You allowed me to take those things from you.”
“And why do you think I did that?” he asked pointedly.
Claire shrugged. “I have no idea, my Laird.”
“Because I could see that you wanted them so much,” he replied. “Especially the pen and quills. It would have been heartless of me to refuse to give them to you.”
“Yet I was stealing them from you,” Claire pointed out. “I expected to be punished.”
“And what would that have achieved?” he asked, his voice gentle. “You would have lost a day’s pay, and that means it would have taken you one day longer to achieve your goal.”
Suddenly, Claire felt bitterly angry. Just when she had thought she was beginning to know and like Iain Ross, he had reminded her of what a lowly position she occupied in his household.
“My goal of achieving my freedom?” she asked, raising her gaze defiantly to his again.
“I assure you, my Laird, when I set my mind to achieving something, I always manage it. Always! So the loss of one day’s pay is not going to deter me in the slightest. I have achieved many things in my life which no one expected me to, and I will achieve this. ”
“And what else did you accomplish?” Iain asked, frowning.
“I have read The Iliad and The Odyssey.” Claire replied triumphantly. “In the original Ancient Greek, and translated it as I went along.”
“Hm… Quite a feat,” Iain mused.
He did not mention that translating Ancient Greek poems was of no use at all when cleaning, gardening, and cooking were what was needed, but Claire was not stupid. She knew that. She had obviously been trying to point out her powers of persistence.
“And I overcame my fear of horses so that I could learn to ride,” she went on. “I taught myself to swim because my father said it was too dangerous and far too undignified for a lady.”
These examples she had given him were far more practical and useful, but he still felt infinitely sorry for Claire as he imagined just how ill-prepared she had been for a menial life like the one she was leading now.
The maids did not attend balls, or wear lace-trimmed satin and velvet evening dresses.
They did not eat the quality of food that she had been accustomed to; most of his servants had never eaten a fillet of prime steak in their lives.
However, unlike many working people, they had good, nourishing fare.
As he looked down at the strikingly beautiful woman in front of him, he reflected that a life of privilege and ease was not always a good thing. Claire had been sheltered, as much as if she had been a mouse thrown into a den of lions, and had been utterly unprepared for what lay ahead of her.
Now she knew. And Iain knew that there was something between him and Claire that was unseen but tangible, so strong that he could have reached out and touched it.
Yet even while it drew them together, it stood between them.
The desire was there, but the ability to fulfil it was out of reach, and stopped them from crossing the bridge that separated them.
Both of them knew it, but neither could do anything about it.
Claire looked down at her finger again. The sore was becoming extremely painful, and she winced.
To her surprise, Iain took her hand and cradled it gently in his own, which looked enormous compared to hers.
His skin felt rough, yet his touch was incredibly gentle.
And when she looked up, he was smiling down at her.
They look like the sky on a clear day, she thought.
Aloud, she said. “Why do you always help me? You rescued me from the old lecher in the tavern, you let me have your books, your writing materials. What have I done to deserve all this, my Laird?”
Iain said nothing for a moment, then he asked, “Why are you always wherever I look?”
His voice was beyond soft. It was tender, and the air between them seemed to throb as he quite unconsciously began to dip his head towards hers.
Claire sucked in a soft breath, and her gaze settled on his parted lips, which were now coming closer and closer to her own. Her whole body tensed and tingled, her private place becoming warm and wet in anticipation of—what?
She never found out. At that moment, they heard the sound of footprints, a rustling of skirts, and at that moment the healer returned, pointedly clearing her throat as she entered the room.
Claire and Iain jumped apart guiltily, and Claire turned to face the other woman, looking away from him.
The healer applied the salve to the sore on Claire’s hand and gave her the instructions on how and when to use it.
“Now, ye must keep your hands as clean as ye can manage before ye put this on,” she said briskly. “Tell the cook I said ye must have some vinegar tae rinse it wi’. If ye have any trouble wi’ it come tae me.”
“Thank you so much.” Claire smiled at the old lady. “Goodnight, my Laird.”
She curtsied and fled without waiting for an answer.
Iain followed her slowly as he went to his study to pour himself another glass of wine. What would have happened had the healer come back a few moments later, he wondered?
Then he told himself, Don’t be stupid, Iain. You know you would have kissed her. For god’s sake, you’ve wanted to do that ever since you first laid eyes on her.
He poured out his wine then sat down beside his desk to do some paperwork, even though it was the last thing he was interested in doing at that moment. Every time he tried to concentrate, he saw Claire’s warm brown eyes gazing at him, her lips parting, awaiting his kiss.
Eventually, he threw down his quill and went to sit by the fireplace with his latest read. Yet, after reading and re-reading the same paragraph over and over again he gave up and went to bed, but it was a long time before sleep claimed him.
Claire, too, had been wondering what would have happened had the healer not arrived at that fateful moment, but she determinedly shook the thought out of her mind and went to finish her letter to Rose.
The Laird is a fearsome Highlander, but he seems to be a good man who looks after his people well.
They all think the world of him, and although he has a few battle scars, somehow I think he would only use his sword in self-defence or to protect those he loves.
I don’t think he’ll ever hurt me, in fact, he took me to the healer today when I hurt my hand—nothing serious!
Now, dear sister, I must go before I fall asleep and spoil this letter. Please write back as soon as you can.
Much love,
Claire.