Page 66 of This Laird of Mine

“Good,” he said softly, then regarded her curiously. “Might I ask what brings you to Argyll? And more particularly, my house?”

She laughed. “Yes, it must seem rather strange that I show up out of the blue. But in reality I have been here for two weeks.”

He frowned. “Two weeks? Who? Where?”

“All of us,” she said, emphasizing the first word, “are staying at Lady Davison’s while Claire works on a commissioned ceiling.”

“Claire is here?” Just the sound of her name brought a tightness to his chest and an image of her to his mind—her wide golden eyes staring up at him, the wind tugging at the loose strands of her copper hair. He missed her with every fiber of his being.

“She’s made mistakes,” Penelope said. “But then, everyone makes mistakes. If we are not making mistakes, then we aren’t really living, wouldn’t you say?” She looked up at him expectantly.

The thought haunted him, tormented him, surprised him. “I can only agree.”

“Then wouldn’t you say if someone made a mistake, like Claire perhaps, that they might deserve a second chance at making things right?”

With an effort he ignored the leap of hope that flared to life inside him. It was unfair to put her in that kind of danger. She deserved someone who could give her a normal life. She deserved someone who would not bring death and pain into every day of their lives. Not someone like him.

At his silence Penelope continued. “She hasn’t been the same since you left. She never smiles. Her paintings are all in grays and greens. She never sleeps. She hardly eats. She’s slowly killing herself.”

“She would be in danger if I went anywhere near her.” He was surprised to hear how hoarse his voice was, how rough.

“She’s in danger now of slowly fading away.”

She never smiles? It was her smile that had made him ache for all the things he never knew he wanted. All his life he had wanted someone to look at him and see not an empty shell but the person he had always wanted to be. When he was younger, he’d thought that person was Jane. But Jane never looked at him the way Claire did.

Claire.

He thought of how it felt to lie in her arms, to have her press her cheek against his chest, to hear her heart beat next to his own. When Claire looked at him, she saw him for who he really was. When she kissed him with a light, breezy touch, she stamped his soul more deeply than their lovemaking had. With Claire, his loneliness fell away, replaced by a sense of wonder. His heart swelled at the memories.

Agatha.

The reminder of the ever-present danger did not have the power it usually held over him. Yes, the woman was still a threat. She would come for him, for them. It was only a matter of time. But would it be better to spend that time apart and miserable, or together, trying to recapture something that had changed them both?

His heart seemed to stop for a moment, then picked up speed. He knew which option he preferred.

“Where is Claire?”

Jules entered the Davisons’ ballroom silently. His gaze immediately went to Claire. She stood on a ladder, her head tilted back, facing the ceiling, a paintbrush in her hand.

He said nothing, made no sound, and yet she stopped as if sensing a presence and looked toward the door. He started toward her, all the while trying to discern the expression on her face. Did she look happy to see him?

In the long, lonely nights without her at his side, he had rehearsed so many speeches—all the things he’d longed to say. Yet not one word he had practiced came to him now as he watched her slowly descend the ladder.

Left without a place to start, he took the only course available to him and tipped his head back to study the painting she was creating on the ceiling of Brightwood Hall. It was of the heavens parting to reveal a burst of bright light, surrounded by a host of angels. “An interesting scene for a ballroom,” he replied, not knowing what else to say to his wife.

“It’s what Lady Davison wanted,” she said with a shrug. “I do not always have the freedom to choose what I paint.”

The sound of her voice was like music to his ears. Had anything ever sounded so sweet? “You can paint whatever you like at Kildare Manor.”

He looked back at her, saw the shock on her face, and knew he had to proceed now or lose the moment. “You look well,” he said coming close enough to her to take the paintbrush from her hands. He set it on the closest wrung of the ladder behind her, then took her hands in his. The scent of paint and turpentine did not hide the fragrance he had come to know and love—the scent of lavender that always reminded him of her.

“I have been better,” she said nervously, her expression one of fear mixed with hope. “And you?”

He gently clutched her hands, praying the subtle pressure communicated what he was finding difficult to say. “Fine, if you take into account that I have been half dead for the past three and a half weeks.”

It took her a moment to comprehend what he was saying, and when she did, tears filled her eyes.

“I’ve been working hard at the manor. The tenants are back, and with what money I had left from selling my mother’s ring, I was able to purchase seed for the crops. If we can just hold on until next fall, our finances will be much better. I hope that you will take that into consideration when I ask you to come home with me.”