Page 27 of This Laird of Mine

“No one belongs here, Claire. Not even me.” On those words he turned around and headed off toward the manor, alone.

Damnation, what have I done? Jules pounded across the open field toward the manor house. He was running, and he would keep running until he could forget what had just happened between them, until he could forget her. He could still taste the lingering sweetness of her mouth on his tongue. He could still feel her velvet softness on his fingertips.

He should have stayed away from her while the others were gone. But he’d been so confident in his ability to ignore her, or at least be his unpleasant self, to scare her, humiliate her, anything to make her go away.

But he had done no such thing. Instead, he had prepared her a meal, and talked about things he never shared with anyone. And in that talking, she had exposed his weaknesses and worn down his resolve. He had spent years practicing self-control, and he’d lost it with a kiss.

His steps slowed. He felt her presence long before she reached him—a rush of energy that made the very air stir. “Jules, do not be afraid of me.”

He spun to confront her. “I am afraid of nothing, least of all you.” He did not keep the steel from his voice. He wanted to scare her, to do anything that would give him back his resolve.

Her lips formed a word, then she stopped, froze, her eyes widening.

He frowned, then turned and followed her gaze to find Jane, Margaret, Nicholas, Hollister, David, Fin, and two other women staring at them. Supremely aware of the curious gazes that took in their wet clothing and disheveled appearances, Jules swallowed a curse and said, “We went fishing,” as though the words would explain all, then continued on toward the house.

“Then where are the fish?” Hollister laughed in response.

“Shh,” Margaret admonished, and that was all Jules heard as he moved out of earshot and hopefully out of their sight. As host, he knew it was wrong to abandon Claire, leaving her alone to face the questions his friends would no doubt press upon her, but at the moment he could do nothing else.

He was free of Claire for the moment. But he didn’t feel free. Her scent was on his shirt, his skin, and he felt as if his hands were still on her body. He moved quickly toward the manor and the master’s chambers. At least there he was safe from her, and there he would scrub his skin until no hint of her remained.

But the memory would remain, the memory of the way she looked, the way she felt . . . Damnation, he was hardening again at the thought. Coupling with her was supposed to mean nothing.

Nothing.

He drew a harsh breath as he shut the chamber door behind him. It was up to him to see that it did.

Claire felt her cheeks flame red as eight pairs of eyes inspected her. Jules’s friends, his steward, and most likely the new servants they had hired, inspected her from head to toe.

“Claire,” Jane said, stepping forward to take her hand. “Are you well?”

Claire smiled and nodded. “I went fishing on my own in a boat that leaked. Jules rescued me when it sank.” The shortened version of what had happened brought nods of understanding from the men, but Jane and Margaret continued to study her, searching for what they did not know.

“Are you hurt?” Margaret asked.

Yes. “No,” Claire replied, with a sudden shiver as the dampness of her clothes suddenly pierced her senses.

Margaret held out her arms. “Come.” Claire hesitated, but Margaret stepped forward until she enfolded Claire in her arms.

Claire accepted the woman’s compassion as she buried her face in Margaret’s shoulder. Claire could feel her throat tighten and the warmth of tears in her eyes, but she forced them back. She had to stay strong.

Margaret stroked her hair. “Let us get you back to the manor and out of those wet clothes.”

Claire nodded, allowing the older woman to support her as they walked back toward Jules’s home. She felt the apprehension in the air and knew the others were watching her, waiting to see what she said or did to give them more insight into what had happened at the loch.

Deliberately she recalled the image of Jules gazing down at her after their joining, the way his eyes had filled with pleasure and wonder. That moment gave her strength and once again reminded her of her purpose. She straightened, no longer leaning on Margaret for support.

Jules had run away from her. He had said their coupling would mean nothing to him. In that he had been wrong. It meant something, to be sure. If anything, it was a sign she was making progress in her efforts to engage his affections. Yet she had to keep a rein on her own—she had to separate herself, body and mind, from the man who had awakened the most intense pleasure she had ever known.

She had to stay strong, do what must be done, then walk away without a second glance.

After washing in the basin, Claire needed something to clear her mind and help her forget the moments she had spent in Jules’s arms. Her fingers reached for a paintbrush. She knew she could not risk going to the ballroom with everyone home and awake.

With a sigh, Claire sat on the sagging bed in the center of the room and tipped her head back. She smiled. Jules had purposely placed her in the most dilapidated, most frightening room in the manor. But just like the chamber on the opposite side of the house, this room had character and exceptionally good structure. A little paint, a little love, and the room would be transformed.

It wasn’t until several hours later of painting a garden scene on the wall near her bed that Claire noticed the light had faded to a pinkish gray. Dusk.

Dusk. Had she been hidden away in her chamber this entire time? Claire hurriedly cleaned her brushes and her fingers, then opened the shutters to air out the room. As soon as she was certain all was concealed and the astringent fumes of turpentine and paint would blend with the usual scent of mustiness and crumbling plaster, she fled from her room and hurried down the stone stairs, anxious to join the others.