Chapter 12
Claire was exhausted, both physically and mentally, and had to drag herself out of bed the next morning, having slept very badly. Rose’s letter, telling her about the baby, had disturbed her more than she had thought possible.
Although she had never before longed for a child, she could not help picturing a little baby boy that looked just like Iain Ross, and despite telling herself again and again not to be so foolish, the thought kept her awake.
Indeed, she could not remember the last time she had enjoyed a decent night’s sleep.
As soon as she went into the kitchen, looking tired and bleary-eyed, she was ambushed by Lorna, who narrowed her eyes and said, “My god, dae a’ Sassenachs look like you first thing in the mornin’?” Then she burst out laughing, and many of the others joined in.
Claire bunched her hands into fists by her side, and only just stopped herself from planting a fist in Lorna’s face with a great effort of will.
She had thought that the other maids were thawing out a little and treating her with a little less hostility, but whenever Lorna was around, they seemed to go back to being as cruel as they had always been.
One of these days, Lorna, you are going to go too far, Claire thought.
She had managed to keep her anger in check for the whole time she had been in the castle, but constant lack of sleep and the unfriendly environment in which she found herself were wearing her down. She was on the verge of lashing out and putting Lorna in her place, and that would not be pretty.
As well as that, there was the ongoing problem of constantly having to dodge Iain Ross. However, as hard as she tried, she could not always avoid him, and whenever he passed her in the corridor he would look at her in a way that always made her heart race and her knees go weak.
It was not an expression that anyone else noticed, since it was too subtle and understood only by both of them, but it always left her unsettled and unable to concentrate. She had perfected the art of keeping her face as rigid as a marble statue, however, and never gave her emotions away.
That day, though, Claire was fortunate enough to avoid the Laird completely, and she managed to somehow knuckle down to her work, almost completely succeeding in banishing him from her mind.
She planned to go to the healer that evening to get some valerian tea to help her to sleep, but in the meantime she struggled on.
The air had been heavy, warm and clammy all day, and the heavens were threatening a thunderstorm, with heavy bruise-coloured clouds sitting on the horizon; the rain would be torrential, the lightning fearsome.
Iain usually loved the deep, rumbling boom of the thunderclaps, and he thought that now a storm was peculiarly appropriate because it matched his mood exactly.
He had a meeting with Dougal McMahon that day, and he was not looking forward to it. Usually, he loved seeing his friend, but he had a feeling that Dougal would find a way to talk about his upcoming betrothal.
Dougal looked his usual congenial self when he entered Iain’s office. The two men shook hands, and Dougal sat across the desk from Iain, his eyes focused intently on the Laird’s face.
“Something is bothering you, Iain,” he stated. “You look exhausted. What’s troubling you?”
“Nothing much,” Iain replied. He rubbed his forehead. “I spent the whole day and some of the early morning doing the accounts, that’s all, and I have a bit of a headache.”
Dougal gave him a sceptical look. Clearly he had his doubts about what Iain had just said, but he did not voice them. “You should get yourself a competent steward to help you,” he declared. “I know one or two who might fit the bill.”
Dougal had spoken about this subject to Iain many times before, since he wanted his son to fill the position. Andrew McMahon was eighteen years old, as wild as a young colt, and Dougal wanted him to be trained for a responsible profession that would help him to mature into a man of substance.
Iain could never see that happening, however. Andrew needed to be tamed before he could mature!
“If you mean Andy,” he replied, “he is far more suited for battle. Send him to me and I will make him into a guard.”
Dougal groaned. “I will not,” he replied. “Andy has too many fine qualities that will be wasted in a profession like that.” His tone was scathing.
“Are you saying my guards are eejits?” Iain asked, frowning.
“Of course not,” Dougal replied. “But I want something where he uses his god-given talents.”
What talents? Iain thought. He did not have a high opinion of the young man, and Dougal knew it.
Iain went to pour them each a glass of wine just as the first rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.
Dougal studied him over the rim of his glass as he sipped his drink. Suddenly, he said, “There is a woman you like, is there not, Iain?” he asked. “That is why you are resisting marriage?”
Although he had half-expected Dougal to bring up the subject of his upcoming betrothal, his friend’s approach startled him. This was not what he had expected at all.
“Of course not!” he replied indignantly, but the expression on his face gave the lie to his statement. He dropped his gaze to his wine glass and took a sip, avoiding Dougal’s eyes. He was aware that his face probably gave away embarrassment and guilt.
Dougal acted as if Iain had not spoken.
“Will you share her name with me?” Dougal asked, “or do I have to guess?”
Iain felt his face become even hotter than before. He looked his friend directly in the eye. “I told you there is no one,” he replied furiously.
“I think I know,” Dougal said firmly. “Are you in love with her?”
“No,” Iain replied. “Because she does not exist.”
His voice was throbbing with rage, yet Dougal read doubt in it.
“I see,” he said. “Well, if you are not attracted to your future wife and all you want is a woman to attend to your bodily needs, I’m sure there are plenty of those around. You can probably take your pick.”
Iain stared at him, aghast. “You are suggesting I should take a mistress if I marry?” he asked, shocked.
It was the same thing he had been contemplating only a short while before, but somehow when his staid, conservative friend said it, it sounded sinful, even obscene.
“Do you have a mistress?” Iain asked angrily.
“I thought about it seriously for a while at the beginning,” Dougal answered.
“But I was never brave enough.” He sighed.
“But I think you want or need more excitement, more danger. I have tried to persuade you otherwise, but I know I’m wasting my breath.
You are a grown man with a mind of your own. ”
The two men sat uneasily for a few more moments, then Dougal stood up. He swallowed the remainder of his wine, then said, “If you continue to resist, the council will take action to force you.”
Iain glared at the other man. “What kind of action?” he demanded.
“You will find out,” Dougal replied with a dark frown. “I can do nothing by myself, but the council is becoming impatient.” It was a threat, but Iain had been threatened before.
“Do your worst,” he cried. “Now get out of my sight!”
Dougal gave Iain a brief nod, then left without saying goodbye.
Having let off a lot of steam, Iain felt strangely relaxed, and was able, for the first time in days, to concentrate on his work—for a while.
When it was time for his afternoon meal to be brought to him, he looked up hopefully, his heart thudding, to see if Claire was delivering it. However, it was one of the other maids, and after that leap of hope and disappointment, he lost his focus altogether.
The memory of Claire’s kiss came back to him; the softness of her lips, the sweet taste of her mouth, the irresistible musk of her skin, and her pliant body against his. The thought of it made him harden and throb, and he was so distracted he completely lost his appetite.
He ate half his meal and sent the other half back to the kitchen. He thought laughingly that at least it would not go to waste, since the pigs would likely eat it with great enjoyment.
In some ways, he envied them. Life must be so simple for animals: no regretting the past, worrying about the future. Life was for living in the present moment, and in many ways that was far better.
Claire somehow got through the day, though she did not know how. She was exhausted by the time she went to her chamber, but even though she tried as hard as she could, sleep would not come. She looked at her books.
She had read the first three, but after that, she had picked out a few romances, and she had no idea why because she could not finish any of them.
Love and kisses were the last things she wanted to think about!
It was bad enough trying to hide from the Laird all day without bringing reminders of him into her bedroom.
Claire had replayed their kiss in her mind so many times it was almost like a kind of sweet torture because it only made her long for more.
Perhaps an exciting adventure story would be just the thing, she thought. She would not normally have chosen that kind of tale to put her to sleep, but she had tried everything else.
Accordingly, Claire crept along to the library, hoping against hope that it would be empty.
The Laird had given her permission to take what she liked at any time, so the door was unlocked.
She gave a great sigh of relief when she found the big room empty.
The fire was cold, and no candles had been lit.
Claire moved along to the shelf where she knew the books she sought were kept, then held up her candle so that she could look through the names, and for the first time that day she felt at peace.
Books always soothed and delighted her, taking her into fantasy worlds where she could roam without fear, letting her sail ships on the open sea, ride on winged horses and travel to the moon.
She had just opened a tale about a night who was on his way to rescue the love of his life from an evil bandit when she was startled by a noise behind her. It was the creaking of the library door opening, and Claire whipped around and looked into the last pair of eyes she wanted to see.
It seemed that the Laird had had the exact same idea as her. When Iain suddenly saw Claire, whose eyes were wide with shock, standing in front of him with a candle in one hand and a book in the other.
Iain raised his eyebrows and smiled at her slowly, wickedly. She was the last person he had expected to see, but it was a delightful surprise. He felt something twist inside him, and a dark pleasure began to overtake him.
He could describe it in only one word: hunger. He wanted Claire, and no other woman would do. He would never force himself on her, of course—he had to be more subtle.
He inched closer, and saw her backing up against the bookshelves. He had expected some reaction from her, but there was none, not even a flicker; her expression was absolutely indifferent.
“Claire,” he said softly. “If you keep reading at this rate, I will have to get more books for my library.”
Claire pasted on a smile, then said, “I will do my best to read slowly, my Laird.”
She shifted sideways to edge around Iain and escape, but at the same moment he leaned in to pluck a book from the shelf.
His hand brushed her hip, sending a tingle of awareness all over her body, and she gave a gasp as Iain’s body came into contact with hers, so close that their lips were almost touching.
“We must stop meeting like this, Claire,” he said, laughing, his deep voice even lower and darker than usual.
“If I had known you were here, I would not have come, my Laird,” Claire said awkwardly, avoiding his eyes.
“Not very flattering, Claire,” he observed. “Are you trying to avoid me?”
At that moment, Claire looked up. Her whole being was aching for him, and she leaned in a little towards his lips, which were so close to hers. Then, abruptly, she ducked under Iain’s arm and made a dash for the door. He turned to watch her, laughing softly.
So you like to play games, Claire? he mused. Well, so do I. Let's have some fun!
Iain slept very well that night for the first time in weeks, and when he awoke, he felt lively, refreshed and ready for anything. He threw on his clothes, then went up to stand on the turrets to chat with the guards on the morning watch and enjoy some fresh morning air.
Iain loved talking to his men, since he did not have to be polite and careful of every word he said, as he would have if ladies were present.
After a while, however, duty called, but he knew it would be a much more pleasant day today because of the decision he had just made.
Iain called Agnes to his office later that morning. She looked apprehensive as he poured her some ale; being summoned to the Laird’s study did not usually bode well.
“Agnes, I need to make some changes in the staff,” he announced.
“Claire Tewsbury will be my personal attendant from now on. Please see to it that arrangements are made to have a new chamber ready for her, and it must be furnished with a desk, a lamp and writing materials as well as the usual furniture.”
“But—but M’Laird!” Agnes protested. “Ye cannae dae that. She is just a maid. If ye want a personal attendant ask—”
However, she did not manage to finish her sentence, since Iain slapped the flat of his hand on the desk with a mighty thud, which made Agnes jump and cower back in her chair.
“I think you will find I can do exactly what I like, Agnes,” he said, his voice low but throbbing with rage. “When you become Laird, then you can give the orders. Until then, do as I say. Understand?”
“Aye, M’Laird,” Agnes answered, hanging her head. “I am very sorry. I will have everythin’ done as ye wish.”
Iain watched her leave, and as the door closed behind her, he allowed himself a slow, satisfied smile.