Highland Bachelor 02 - This Laird of Mine Read online

  His brows drew together. “My mother’s ring.”

  “So it would seem.” Claire frowned at his odd response. All his anger had vanished. Instead, shocked surprise lingered in his voice. “When Mr. Grayson gave it to me, he said it was important to you, maybe even priceless because it was the only reminder you had of the woman who bore you.”

  “You have my mother’s ring?”

  “That was what your note to me explained.”

  “My note?” His gaze turned sharp, as though no longer shocked by her words.

  “The one you sent with the ring.” Claire took a step back, suddenly weary.

  “You do not happen to have this note in your possession, do you?” He brought his gaze to hers, cynical contempt blazing in the depths of his eyes.

  “Your solicitor took it back from me after sliding your ring on my finger.”

  “Of course he did. Why leave proof of your deception for others to dispute.”

  Claire felt physically ill at the thought that he might turn her away without even giving her a chance. She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. The girls. How could she protect them? How could she find them? She had tried before agreeing to this marriage, and had failed.

  “This is madness. Utter madness,” Claire cried. The lives of the girls were at stake. She had to turn this situation around.

  “Madness has been the bane of my life for the last four years. Why would things be any different now?” he asked. The edge to his voice had lessened, and that surprised her.

  “What can I do to show you how sincere I am about being a good wife to you?”

  “Nothing, not until I know the truth.”

  “And how will you get that, if not from me?”

  “I’ve sent for my solicitor. When he arrives we will discover the truth.” Jules came closer, and suddenly his presence was threatening again. “And until then, I want you close, where I can see you, rather than operating behind my back.”

  Not for the first time, Claire found herself at a loss to understand him. First he wanted her to go. Now he wanted her to stay. Holding on to her ring proved to her that he wasn’t about to claim her as his bride just yet either.

  Terrified her tears were going to fall, Claire tipped her head back, inspecting the ceiling. Through a haze of tears she realized she could accept his terms. For now, she would be allowed to stay and to play the part of his wife. And she intended to use that time wisely, to convince him she belonged by his side. Too much was at stake to allow for anything else.

  Only two things stood in her way. The first was the enigmatic man who no longer looked at her. Instead he gazed off into the far corners of the room, his profile taut. The second was the pheasant she would have to prepare for supper.

  The pheasant seemed far less of a challenge than the man.

  After the midday meal of bread, cheese, and sliced apples, Claire made her way to the kitchen. Her guests had been kind about her simple luncheon, but she was certain they expected something much more hearty for supper.

  Jules had made it clear she was to prepare the pheasant without help from anyone else. And although both Jane and Margaret had offered their assistance, Jules had demanded all the others walk the estate with him, leaving her with no help, which was perfectly fine with Claire. She wanted to prove to him she was capable of any task he threw her way.

  Claire stood in the kitchen alone, staring down at the vacant gazes of the four dead birds Jules had left her on the wooden table. She had to pluck and roast the birds. She only knew how to cook simple foods: porridge, spitted meats, soups. Once she had successfully cooked a trout Penelope had plucked from the river. But pheasant . . .

  For a moment Claire stood there, nervously rubbing the palms of her hands against her linen skirt before she gingerly touched one wing, extended it fully, then let it drop back to the table with a groan. Perhaps it would be best to simply cut off the wings, the head, and the feet. But what should she do about the rest of the feathers?

  She shifted her gaze from the pheasant to a large pot near the hearth. If she dipped the birds in boiling water, would their feathers come off, or would she end up with a wet mess instead? Perhaps she should try plucking the birds.

  With a gentle stroke, she brushed the bird’s brownish-red chest upward, then gripped a small cluster of feathers and tugged down. They came out easily enough, but there were hundreds more. She would be plucking feathers for hours.

  She offered the birds an apologetic smile. “You will be glorious by the time I am through with you. I will prevail, you will see,” she said with more confidence than she felt.

  Six hours later, her brow damp with perspiration, Claire finished cooking dinner. The pheasants were not as plump as she would have liked, and two of the birds that were farthest out on the spit were more black than golden brown. The carrots appeared a little undercooked, while the turnips and leeks were more like charcoal than vegetables. Regardless, she placed everything onto the serving trays and finished with a heavy sigh.

  Disappointed in her culinary skills, she had no choice but to try something else if she were to win this round against Jules.

  She had never used her feminine wiles to attract a man before. Tonight, she would use those attributes to the fullest in order to succeed where her meal had failed.

  Before the night was through, Jules MacIntyre would not know what hit him.

  Later that evening, Jules gathered with his guests in what used to be the green salon, but was now more a faded, pale beige color. Water stains streaked the walls, oddly enough lending some relief to the tedium of the unending neutrality. With no furnishings on which to sit, the six of them stood, waiting for Claire to join them.

  What could be keeping her? Fin reported she had been in the kitchen since after luncheon. When he’d given her the task of cooking for his friends, he had expected her to rebel. She had not. But that was hours ago. What could be keeping her? Jules raised his chin and headed toward the door.

  “I will see what is keeping Claire.”

  He made it as far as the hearth when she abruptly arrived. At the sight of her, his breath stilled and the room faded away.

  She appeared, framed by the doorway, like a vision from above, clad in a shimmering green gown that was neither jade nor emerald, but somewhere in between. The room around her suddenly warmed from its tired beige to a brighter pale green, as though welcoming its mistress.

  Claire remained in the doorway. “My apologies. Our supper is finally ready and laid out for us on the west terrace.”

  She had done it?

  Jules peeled his gaze from her to address his other guests, then startled as he noted the satisfied smile on Jane’s lips, and the appreciative gazes on Hollister’s, Nicholas’s, and even David’s faces.

  In that moment of stunned silence, he turned back to Claire and allowed his gaze to linger on the low, rounded neckline that offered a tantalizing view of her smooth, voluptuous flesh, and the long bodice emphasizing a tiny waist. The cap sleeves and full skirt needed no ornamentation other than that given by her hair. One long curl had escaped her tight chignon, which was swept back and held tight with a single emerald clip.

  She was a vision of perfection, beauty, and sensuality all rolled into one, and so very different from the woman who had entered his home and his life yesterday. Before this moment he had never really considered what his “made up” Claire would look like, but he imagined she would look very similar to the stunning woman who stood before him now.

  Gracefully, the real Claire came forward and slipped her hand through Jules’s arm hanging loosely at his side. “If we are ready, let us escort you all to supper.”

  Jules shook his head to clear it. “Yes, supper,” he managed dryly. He allowed himself to be swept forward for a moment before he caught himself. What was he doing? He did not need to play along with this fantasy. As soon as Grayson arrived, he would have his answers.

  Jules forced himself to stop thinking of Claire.
He had enough real worries to contend with. He cast a sideways look at his companion. “So you managed to cook those birds, did you?”

  “I cannot be the judge of my own cooking.” She would not meet his curious gaze.

  “You burned everything.”

  She lifted her chin. “I did my best. The cooking was difficult, but not as hard as preparing the birds to cook,” she said, turning her gaze to his. “I had never done that before. And from this moment forward, I will be far more grateful to those whose task it is to pluck and clean our fowl.” Sincerity shone in the depths of her golden eyes, and for a second time that night he found himself drawn to her against his will by some strange magnetism she seemed to radiate.

  Standing by her side, even now he felt angered and exhilarated at the same moment. Part of him felt compelled to win her approval, while another part rejoiced at the difficulty she admitted with her cooking efforts. The thought had a sobering effect on him as they continued toward the terrace and the table and chairs that had been sent up from the village only this morning.

  After he had paid for all the new furnishings and restocked the larder, there was precious little money left from the sale of the carpets. And other than a few more places to sit, and a bit of food in their bellies, he was no better off than he had been five days past.

  Yet even as the thoughts materialized, he knew they were untrue. He was much better off, even in his impoverished state, than he was this time last year. As a free man, even a poor one, he had so many more options than he’d had wasting away in gaol. He had to remember that, always.

  Nothing would ever be as bad as that ever again. He would find a way to turn his fate, but he would do so alone. Self-preservation demanded nothing less.

  He realized, looking across the table at Jane and her slightly rounded belly, that it wasn’t the fact that he could not have her for his own that made him so determined to remain alone for the remainder of his days. It was that he felt he did not deserve such happiness as that which he saw in his friend’s eyes.

  He was unlovable.

  Had not his own father proven that to him time and again over the years with his neglect, with his avoidance when Jules had caused trouble merely to get attention, and by not freeing him from gaol?

  His gaze shifted back to Claire. It was better this way, for her to leave before she could discover his true nature. After tonight, he would return to his lonely and isolated state.

  One last supper. He allowed himself a small smile at his unintended pun.

  This would be their last meal together. In the morning Grayson should arrive. He would prove Claire’s claims about their marriage untrue, and the woman before him would be on her way back to the mist from which she had come.

  Perhaps then he would tell his friends the truth about creating a bride. Surely, if he would go so far as to make up a wife to get them off his back, they would stand down for at least a little while in their plans to see him happily wed. Wouldn’t they?

  Beneath the fading light of the day, the meal was served. The meat was dry, the vegetables burned to a crisp, except for the carrots, which were almost as crunchy as the pheasant. Despite Claire’s disaster of a meal, the evening had not gone badly.

  The soft sounds of the night filled the air, as did the lush fragrance of the wild lilies and roses. The golden flames from several torches danced in the lightest of breezes, and as the sun set, the brightness transformed the terrace from the ruin that it had become into a magical retreat.

  After they had finished eating, Jules leaned back and observed the woman who, despite his efforts to stay focused on Jane, had stolen his attention all night.

  The woman before him was not the skittish young woman he’d met yesterday. No, this Claire was seductive, alluring, confident, and, if he were honest with himself, hard to resist. Tonight her golden eyes lit up with a mixture of laughter and intelligence as those gathered had discussed the foundation of the National Library in Edinburgh, a comet in the northern sky that was visible to the naked eye, and the latest painting of the Countess of Lauderdale to be revealed by Scottish painter John Scougall.

  More seriously, they talked about the latest battle at Aird’s Moss between the Covenanters and the government dragoons. “They say Reverend Richard Cameron was killed, along with eight of his men,” Hollister recounted as he sipped a small glass of whiskey. All the men supported the side of the Covenanters, although none of them had signed the covenant themselves.

  “Twenty-eight government soldiers lost their lives,” David said quietly, his voice distant as he clenched his fists on the table.

  “When will the fighting end?” Jane asked, her voice tight. The pain in her eyes was tangible.

  Nicholas said nothing as he stood, then positioned himself behind Jane, placing his hands on her shoulders. But Jules saw the anguish in Nicholas’s eyes at the unspoken reference to her brother, who had yet to return from the conflict last year at Bothwell Bridge between the Covenanters and the government forces. Jane looked up at her husband. Their gazes locked. Something passed between them, a shared look that left Jules raw. To be so loved . . .

  Nicholas pulled Jane’s chair away from the table and took her hand, helping her to her feet. “Thank you for the lovely supper, Claire, but I think it is time for Jane and me to retire.”

  “It’s the baby that makes me tired,” Jane said.

  Margaret and Hollister stood as well. Margaret let her hand drift to her softly extended belly. “Perhaps all of us could use some sleep after the ruckus that had us all awake before dawn.” She cast Jules a look that said she’d been disturbed from her sleep by the early morning noise.

  He shrugged. “Without that ruckus we would not have had this . . .” He paused, trying to find a word to describe the meal that would not hurt Claire’s feelings. When nothing came to mind, he simply said, “dinner.” He watched as Claire’s cheeks warmed and she dropped her gaze to her hands.

  David excused himself with the others, and soon Jules and Claire were very much alone on the terrace. The torchlight danced in the breeze, and silence hovered between them until he lifted the bottle of whiskey, poured a splash into two cups, and handed her one. “It’s my family’s own recipe.”

  Claire frowned at the amber liquid. “I have never had spirits before.”

  “Here’s to the first of many firsts. Your first wifely meal cooked, your first whiskey, your first night alone with me.” As his words faded into the night, he raised his cup to hers, then took a drink.

  She raised her cup and took a tiny sip, and her eyes flared wide. “It’s like drinking fire. Fire might actually be easier to swallow.”

  He grinned sympathetically and set down his cup. “It does take some getting used to.”

  “This is what you were raised on?” she asked, her voice raspy from the liquid.

  He shook his head. “I was raised by Jane’s father until my own sire felt it necessary for me to return to the family fold.” He took another long sip of his whiskey, allowing the “liquid fire,” as Claire had aptly called it, to numb his senses. Tonight he longed for an escape from his burdens, and to stare into Claire’s warm and sensual gaze. “Now it is my turn to ask you something.”

  She set her cup down at arm’s length, then returned her smiling gaze to his. “You may ask me three questions. That is your quota for one night.”

  “Why three?” he asked, chuckling.

  “One is too few and four might become far too personal. So three seemed to be just right,” she responded with a teasing tone and a lazy smile. “But I demand the same in return.”

  “Very well. Tell me, Claire, when you are not posing as someone’s wife, what do you do?”

  Her smile fading, she leaned back in her chair. “I am a teacher. That is how I have been able to be on my own for the past five years.”

  “A teacher?” He hadn’t expected that, although he wasn’t certain what he expected. When they’d first met, she’d said her father was a scholar, a
nd that had led him to believe she was some spoiled aristocrat’s daughter. Yet if that were true, why would she ruin herself on the altar of matrimony, especially to someone like him? “What do you teach?”

  “Art mostly, but I have also taught my girls to read, to write, and to do their numbers.”

  He gave her a puzzled look. “You were taught those things?”

  She nodded. “My father was insistent that I learn everything I could. Then when my parents died, I was fortunate to be taken in by a family who believed in educating their daughters as well as their sons and my education continued.”

  “Who do you teach?”

  Claire fingered a locket on a chain around her neck. “I teach young women who have the desire to paint and have a need to support themselves.”

  Not for the first time, Jules found himself at a loss to understand her. “Why would women, especially young women, need to support themselves? Isn’t that what marriage is for?”

  “Marriage is not always the answer, especially when certain husbands don’t believe their bond is true,” she said dryly. “It is men like you who have every advantage, while women have very few, if any at all.”

  “Like you.”

  “Like me,” she said softly.

  “You think you have me all figured out, don’t you?” he replied, watching her closely.

  “No,” she said with a shake of her head. “I do not know much about you. And I fear there are very few people in this life with whom you will bare your soul, or even accept as your friend.”

  “If that is true, then where does that leave you?”

  “That is your ninth question, and I still have yet to ask even one.” She pushed back from the table. “In answer to your last question, I do not see myself ever reaching your inner circle, despite our relationship.”

  The anguish in her voice troubled him before he tensed. “We have no relationship,” he countered, suddenly disgusted with himself. He would not fall for her helplessness again. Damnation, the woman was a master at getting under his skin.

  Claire stood, staring at him with hurt in her eyes. “You have made it perfectly obvious I am unwanted, but as I have nowhere else to go, consider yourself burdened with me. That is your plight, husband, until you prove me wrong.” She turned and headed back toward the manor.