Page 68 of This Laird of Mine

“Agatha came to my bed two days after I returned. I turned her away. She came again the next night, and I did the same. She begged, she pleaded, she teased. She knew exactly what she was doing to me, the torment she caused. She kept at it every night for weeks, months, then years.” He shook his head at the unpleasant memory. “I would not cuckold my father.”

“No one around you knew the truth?”

He shrugged. “No one saw what Agatha did not want them to see, but the servants all knew I was angry with her. They could see my hatred, and that only fed into the lies she told them about me.”

“That must have been very hard for a young man to be so alone with such a big secret weighing on him,” she said with sympathy instead of the repulsion he had feared.

“One day I told Agatha I’d had enough. The torment would stop or I would go to my father and tell him what she was.” He could feel one corner of his lips lift in a twisted smile. “She wasn’t pleased.”

“What did she do?”

“The next day she was found dead. I know now she’d arranged everything to look like I’d poisoned her. She played upon the anger I felt for her and pitted the servants against me. Without proof otherwise, I was convicted of murder and sentenced to hang. But Jane changed that outcome.”

She shivered and held his hand more tightly. “How?”

“Because I could no longer look at my father without wanting to harm myself, I left Kildare Manor that night. I rode all night to reach Bellhaven Castle, Jane’s home. She testified that I could have been nowhere near my own home when the murder took place.”

“Then why did they charge you at all?” Claire asked.

“Because shortly before I left for Bellhaven, I had purchased poison. I had intended to kill her. For that, I was sentenced to time in gaol until someone could pay my ransom. I deserved what punishment I was dealt, because if I had stayed at Kildare Manor that night, I would have killed her.”

“Thinking of something and doing it are two very different things.” Claire looked at him in astonishment. “Your father brought that woman into your household and let her hurt you. If anyone is to blame, besides that monster who pretended to be your mother, it was your father for closing his eyes to what was before him.”

He nodded his agreement. “I came to that same conclusion this morning. And despite it all, I forgave my father. Just like the two of us, he made mistakes. If I was ever going to move forward with my life, I had to let go of the anger I felt toward him, and even toward Agatha.”

His brow furrowed as he held Claire’s hands. “You’re trembling.”

“I’m not as forgiving, I fear. I don’t like what that woman did to you.” Her voice was raw. “She hurt you. She can hurt you still.”

He shook his head. “No, Claire, she can’t, because I won’t let her, and neither will you.” With his thumbs, he rubbed her palms until her trembling stopped and another emotion fired in her eyes. He pulled Claire to him and bent his head. He stopped just before their lips met, waited a heartbeat so that she could sense his hunger. “That game with Agatha is over, and we’ve won. She cannot steal what we have found again this day. True happiness has no end.”

He closed the gap between them, pressing soft kisses to her lips, kisses that hinted at the passion he held in check, kisses filled with promise for the future. He teased her lips until he felt her relax in his arms, until her nerves were as taut as his own, and until she was as desperate to return to the paradise only the two of them could enter.

Her eyes on his, she drew back, caught his hand in her own, and led him from the room. She led him up the stairs to the bedchamber she occupied at Brightwood Hall. “I cannot wait until we return to Kildare Manor,” she said, her voice rough with passion.

He shut the door and pulled her into his arms. The place did not matter. She was all that mattered. “Neither can I.” Light from the late afternoon sun shone through the window, illuminating the chamber in hues of pale gold.

She met his gaze in the pale light, and he felt rather than saw her desire flare. He took a moment to savor the sensation. Raising both hands, he framed her face, tipped it up to his. He looked down for one long moment, searching those lovely eyes, then bent his head to kiss her.

Claire knew the moment his lips touched hers that this was a new beginning. While Jules deepened his kiss, his hands moved to the ties of her paint-splattered dress, and slowly he slipped the garment from her shoulders, down her hips, until finally it pooled about her ankles.

Time seemed to slow as he lifted her in his arms and carried her the short distance to the bed. Gently, he set her there, then bent to remove his boots. He dispensed with his waistcoat and breeches, setting them aside, then, as if the slowness of his other motions cost him his restraint, he yanked at his shirt, loosening his cuffs as he slipped beside her on the bed in his full naked glory. He reached for her, wrapped her in his arms, and instead of acting on his passion, he simply held her. “I promise you, Claire,” he whispered against her ear, “no one will ever hurt you again, especially me.”

She pressed her cheek to his, and drew in the scent of mint and man. She closed her eyes, savoring the sensation of his body as it warmed her own. “That is not something you can promise and keep.” She pulled back and looked into his eyes. “We will hurt each other. It is part of trusting each other with our lives. We’ll make mistakes, but we’ll learn from them.”

“Ever the wise one.” A hint of a smile came to his lips. “Then let me promise that if I do hurt you, I will make it up to you with my lips.” He kissed her temple, her cheek, the tip of her nose, until finally he kissed her lips. The kiss was gentle, patient, as though he waited for a response. When she gave it to him, he coaxed her into more until her body melted against his. He kissed her longingly. Hungrily. Yet his hunger was restrained as he let her taste his wanting. Holding back, he gave to her without taking.

When the tide of her longing matched his own, he broke the kiss, his voice rough with need as he whispered, “With my heart.” His gaze never leaving hers, he brought his hand down to cover her chest above her heart where that organ fluttered beneath his touch. “And with my body.”

Jules wove what he felt for her into each gentle caress as his hands sculpted to her back, her hips, her thighs. He let her feel his need of her in each slow kiss, each press of his hand against her heated flesh. He continued his assault with a slow, steady stroke, creating his own masterpiece with her as his muse.

Their lovemaking before had been passionate and intense, and a part of her grew restless, waiting for the fulfillment of the promise he created with each tender touch. She reached for him, trying to caress him in return, but he pressed her back into the pillows, evading her touch, gently anchoring her wrists with one hand above her head.

With his free hand he stroked from the hollow of her throat, over her breasts, along the flat of her stomach, to her woman’s core, branding her with an unspoken promise. He touched her with reverent possession, as if he still couldn’t quite believe she was his.

She tried to shift into him. He held her back. “Don’t,” he whispered with passion thickening his voice. “I want to be the one who brings you pleasure, pleasure so intense that it is close to pain. I want you to feel in my arms the way you feel when you’re painting.”

“You bring me that kind of pleasure every day that you weave your hand with mine.” Merciful heavens, he was beautiful. The candlelight bathed him in a golden glow, delineating each feature of his face, the tough, sinewy grace of his chest and shoulders.