Chapter 8
The summer heat from the open door cut through the stifling, sweaty press of The Thistle and Sword at the southern edge of the village of Kildare.
Across the room, a dark-cloaked figure watched as two new patrons entered the smoky tavern.
At the sight of the two women, she sat up.
Four men entered behind the women. Frowning, the cloaked figure stepped deeper into the shadows as she recognized the pesky servant from Kildare Manor, John Finnie. The others must be Jules’s friends.
The younger of the two women made her way across the crowded room, heading toward the only open table.
The regal way she held her slender, delicate body marked her as Lady Jane Kincaid.
The memory of what Jane had done to save Lord Kildare from the hangman’s noose made the cloaked figure clench her hands.
The young laird was supposed to die, but Jane had altered that plan.
Now was the time for a different plan—one of revenge, slow torture, and pain.
The thought blew across her mind like an elusive breeze in the stuffy room.
The end would be worth the wait. For the end promised to be every bit as tragic as the beginning.
Jules MacIntyre deserved nothing less.
Jules returned to Claire less than a quarter hour later bearing a basket.
He had taken the time to wash and change into a clean lawn shirt and fawn breeches that didn’t smell of fish or sweat. “Since the others have yet to return, I thought we might have some bread and cheese outside.”
“What time is it?” she asked, coming to sit beside him on the blanket he had spread out on the one corner of the lawn that wasn’t waist-high. He had trampled the weeds into submission as he’d cut several sections of logs into kindling earlier this morn.
He looked at the sun. “Most likely around midday,” Jules replied, then frowned at the rest of the lawn. Perhaps it was time to tame the estate. Working outside had helped to clear his head, at least until Joseph had arrived with the news of Grayson’s demise.
“When will the others return? Did they say?” Claire asked, sitting down on the blanket beside him, gazing off toward the village.
“Around four, I imagine. Do you miss them so much?”
Claire gave him a winsome smile. “No, but I am eager to move forward with the cleaning. And unless we are going to eat fish and cheese for days on end, we have no more supplies.”
He looked at her with amusement. “I am very fond of fish.”
“And I am very fond of cheese,” she said with a chuckle.
“Then we shall be fine.” Jules set a plate down, positioned the bread and cheese upon it, then turned the plate so the cheese was closer to her. “I suspect they are having a difficult time finding women who are eager to come up here to clean, no matter what Nicholas offers to pay.”
Claire sliced off a corner of the cheese and popped it into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Why is that?”
“They fear my reputation.” He tore off a piece of bread. “The rogue of Kildare is what they call me in the village.”
“Do they really?” She paused in ripping off a piece of bread. There was no fear in her eyes, but she remained so still.
He narrowed his gaze on her. “Does that give you pause about the man you have attached yourself to?”
“No.”
There was no hesitation in her answer, and that surprised him. He searched her face, contemplating her response. “The only person who can verify your claim of a proxy wedding is now dead,” he said.
An indescribable look of pain flashed across her face. “I hope that as Grayson met with such an unfortunate end, he did not suffer.”
Jules ripped another section off the bread, stifling his sudden urge to reach for her hand and comfort her.
She set down the reminder of the cheese. “As for proof of our marriage, it would have been recorded in the parish records if the documents Grayson had me sign are no longer accessible.”
The words brought his gaze back to hers. “I will need to go to Edinburgh to confirm that myself.”
She said nothing, simply nodded in response, but that odd sadness lingered in her gaze.
This time, he could not hold back his need to comfort her. He touched her hand.
She did not pull away. A soft smile came to her lips. “I do not blame you for being angry with me. I went into this marriage fully knowing what to expect. You were not prepared for me, I realize that now.”
His eyes locked onto hers, glittering yet warm and so filled with hope and vitality that he could not look away, even though he wanted to—Lord, how he wanted to. But her gaze wouldn’t release him, and he had no choice but to stare. “No, I was not prepared for you.”
“Why did you fabricate a wife?” she asked.
“Who told you that?”
“Grayson.”
He made a small sound, a rush of breath, an aborted laugh at her bluntness. And yet it also felt good to talk openly about what he had done without the others around. Neither of them had to pretend. “I wanted to be left alone.”
A frown pulled down the corners of her mouth, but did nothing to mar her features. Instead, it once again made him want to lift his hand to her cheek and stroke away the concern he saw there. “I would think after your situation, you would want exactly the opposite.”
“Are you referring to my time in gaol?” he asked, thinly.
She nodded. “It could not have been easy.”
He pulled his gaze away from the pity in her golden eyes. “It was hell on earth, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.” He didn’t want anyone to look at him that way, not anymore. It made him feel helpless, and he had worked hard to be anything but the victim he had once been forced to play.
“I’m sorry for that.”
In her voice he heard not pity, but softness, a gentle acceptance that left him just as on edge as her pity had done. “Life is seldom what we want it to be,” Jules said.
She leaned closer, and brought her hand up to cradle his cheek with an intimacy that was both gentle and sensuous. “It can be,” Claire whispered.
His body stirred at the confidence in the way she held him, at the heat of her touch.
This was not the meek woman he had met that first day or the prideful woman he had dined with last night.
This was a different woman altogether. Since he had left her this morning, she had found a strength he hadn’t anticipated.
It was evident in the way she touched him, the way she looked at him—she looked not through him as others often did, but straight into his tattered soul.
He got to his feet suddenly. “I’m going fishing.”
She startled, her hand remaining in the empty air. “You caught a fish for tonight’s dinner already.”
“We will need a second one, and maybe a third.” He felt like an idiot for pulling away, yet he’d had to. It was either pull away or kiss her. And kissing her seemed like a very bad idea.
Without another word, he headed back toward the loch. Halfway there, he realized he had forgotten his fishing line. He kept on going. Perhaps he would go for a cold swim instead.
Claire stared unseeingly at the ceiling above her, the charcoal in her hand arrested midstroke.
She did not understand Jules MacIntyre at all.
She had just started to break through the wall he had built between them since she’d arrived, and in the next moment he was gone.
How could she stop him from running away?
She dropped her charcoal into the basket of supplies she had gathered and placed it atop the scaffolding she had built.
She’d created the structure from two broken ladders and a panel from an old wagon she had found in the barn.
Kildare Manor might not have furnishings, servants, or stores of food, but it contained a wealth of dilapidated wood, weaponry, aging whiskey barrels, an old boat, and paint.
She had been a little shocked by the discovery of a wooden chest filled with vials of pigment and brushes, as well as various types of oil and varnish. Someone in the MacIntyre family had been a painter once, although all the evidence except for the chest was gone from the manor.
Claire’s heart had soared, and her fingers had itched to create something beautiful in this big, empty house.
And she’d acted on the urge, dragging the chest into the house, up the stairs, and directly into the deserted ballroom.
Yet now that her initial excitement had vanished, she also realized the discovery had allowed her to forget, ever so briefly, her own important role.
And it wasn’t as painter to the Kildare household.
Slowly, she climbed down the scaffolding until she stood once more on the floor.
A quick glance up brought a smile to her face.
The design was progressing. Another few hours and she would be ready to paint.
But those hours would have to come when everyone else was asleep from now on.
She could not afford to lose herself to her painting during the precious daylight hours. Too much was at stake to fail.
Claire glanced down at her blackened fingers, and swallowed hard, forcing back the thick ache of memories—the shreds of fabric from the girls’ dresses, the dark-hooded figures . . .
No, she would not go home a failure, regardless of how Jules responded to her. He would not drive her away, not until she knew the girls were safe.
The resolve gave her the strength she needed to leave the chamber and hurry toward her own room.
It was time to toss caution to the wind.
If she wanted to gain Lord Kildare’s favor, she had to be willing to risk more, dare more.
She had to breach that wall he had erected between them and knock it down completely.
And she knew just how to accomplish that task.
If he wanted more fish for supper, than she would be the one to provide them this time. If he could fish, then so could she.