Page 23 of This Laird of Mine

She startled, her hand remaining in the empty air. “You caught a fish for tonight’s dinner already.”

“We will need a second one, and maybe a third.” He felt like an idiot for pulling away, yet he’d had to. It was either pull away or kiss her. And kissing her seemed like a very bad idea.

Without another word, he headed back toward the loch. Halfway there, he realized he had forgotten his fishing line. He kept on going. Perhaps he would go for a cold swim instead.

Claire stared unseeingly at the ceiling above her, the charcoal in her hand arrested midstroke. She did not understand Jules MacIntyre at all. She had just started to break through the wall he had built between them since she’d arrived, and in the next moment he was gone. How could she stop him from running away?

She dropped her charcoal into the basket of supplies she had gathered and placed it atop the scaffolding she had built. She’d created the structure from two broken ladders and a panel from an old wagon she had found in the barn. Kildare Manor might not have furnishings, servants, or stores of food, but it contained a wealth of dilapidated wood, weaponry, aging whiskey barrels, an old boat, and paint.

She had been a little shocked by the discovery of a wooden chest filled with vials of pigment and brushes, as well as various types of oil and varnish. Someone in the MacIntyre family had been a painter once, although all the evidence except for the chest was gone from the manor.

Claire’s heart had soared, and her fingers had itched to create something beautiful in this big, empty house. And she’d acted on the urge, dragging the chest into the house, up the stairs, and directly into the deserted ballroom. Yet now that her initial excitement had vanished, she also realized the discovery had allowed her to forget, ever so briefly, her own important role. And it wasn’t as painter to the Kildare household.

Slowly, she climbed down the scaffolding until she stood once more on the floor. A quick glance up brought a smile to her face. The design was progressing. Another few hours and she would be ready to paint. But those hours would have to come when everyone else was asleep from now on. She could not afford to lose herself to her painting during the precious daylight hours. Too much was at stake to fail.

Claire glanced down at her blackened fingers, and swallowed hard, forcing back the thick ache of memories—the shreds of fabric from the girls’ dresses, the dark-hooded figures . . .

No, she would not go home a failure, regardless of how Jules responded to her. He would not drive her away, not until she knew the girls were safe.

The resolve gave her the strength she needed to leave the chamber and hurry toward her own room. It was time to toss caution to the wind. If she wanted to gain Lord Kildare’s favor, she had to be willing to risk more, dare more. She had to breach that wall he had erected between them and knock it down completely. And she knew just how to accomplish that task.

If he wanted more fish for supper, than she would be the one to provide them this time. If he could fish, then so could she.

Thinking she could be Jules’s equal, Claire headed outside toward the boathouse. It took much effort to drag the heavy wooden boat she had found there across the grassy field that seemed to go on forever until she reached the shore of the loch.

She glanced around, searching for Jules. Only an hour had passed since they’d been together earlier. When she did not see him, she took off her shoes and left them on the shore. Then, with the hem of her dress clenched tight in her fist, Claire pushed the ancient boat away from the edge of the loch. She took the last three steps on the narrow beach, two in the water, then hopped into the vessel.

Her father had taken her out in a boat several times in her youth. While he studied the fish and animal life, she had drawn the scenery. It had been one of their favorite things to do on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

The wood creaked and moaned beneath her as the boat glided over the steel-gray surface of the loch. She settled herself on the small wooden bench in the center and gripped the oars. It took several strokes to find a rhythm that sent the boat out into the loch, instead of in a circle back toward the shore.

The air around her grew a little cooler. A breeze tugged at the ends of the hair that had fallen from her chignon in her efforts to drag the boat from the boathouse to the water. The air was heavy with the scent of heather and pine. The oars gave forth a rhythmic cadence that seemed so in harmony with this setting.

Claire tipped her head back and let the sunshine warm her face. She drew a breath of clean, fresh air and relished the sensation of freedom that came to her as she glided toward the deeper waters.

She pulled the oars back inside the boat and picked up the net she had tossed in the back of the boat. Cool liquid met her fingertips and dragged down the hem of her gown as water lined the bottom of the boat. Obviously the vessel had a leak, despite the fact that she had inspected it before launching it into the loch.

A quick glance back at the shore in the distance brought a sense of unease, but she pushed the sensation away. She had come here to fish, and to prove to Jules that she was capable. And prove that point she would . . . unless she drowned herself first.

Determined to succeed, Claire turned the boat back toward the shore, then tossed the net over the edge. Several large holes were visible as the net dipped below the surface.

A leaky boat, a hole-filled net—this adventure was not turning out exactly as she had hoped. Dragging the net against the side of the boat with one hand, she reached for the oars and tried to row back to safety, but the netting hampered her movements.

The water level in the boat had risen to her ankles. She felt a pinprick of fear as the frigid water crawled up her skin, but kept rowing. The water was coming in faster now. Realizing she could row faster without the net, she dropped it, watching it for a moment as it sank down into the steel-gray depths of the loch.

Her heart constricted in her chest as the water came up to her midcalf. She had learned to swim as a child. Her father had taught her how, but it had been years since she had been in the water. She gripped the oars, rowed hard. Despite her efforts, the water flowed in, dragging the boat down, making the vessel heavy and impossible to maneuver.

Water slipped over the side. For an instant she floated as the boat slipped out from beneath her, pulling the oars from her hands. She let them go, unable to counter the deadweight. Fear threaded through her as she thrashed at the water. Regardless of her efforts, she slipped below the surface.

She felt herself falling, weightless, her arms spread and her hair escaping the tight chignon to float into her eyes. Cold water sucked at her; the boat was a colossal shadow below her as they both sank deeper into the void. Silver fish swam around her—trout. Her intention to catch a fish would have been realized had the boat not sprung a leak.

Yet now she would drown, unless she did something. She kicked, but the heavy drag of her skirt tugged her down despite her efforts. Anger warmed her, fired her blood. She would not drown. She had far too much to live for—the girls, Jules, all the paintings she had yet to paint.

She kicked fiercely at the water that surrounded her. Slowly she glided forward, broke free from the weight that dragged her down. At the surface, she drew in a breath of air, felt the bliss of warmth on her face, and something grabbed her hand. Something yanked her farther up. A man surrounded in light. Jules. His arms went around her waist. He pulled her close, his heart beat against her chest, and she drew comfort from it, from him as he swam toward the shore.

They were on the grassy shoreline. She collapsed to her side and drew a deep breath of heather-scented air.

Jules dragged her into his arms. They lay there, with his face pressed against her hair, entangled. Claire reached up and curled her fingers around his shoulder, feeling the soggy cloth of his shirt beneath her fingers, and a small smile tugged at her lips. He had come after her.