Page 16 of This Laird of Mine

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.