Page 17 of This Laird of Mine

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, and 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?”