Page 41 of This Laird of Mine

She was dressed in an emerald-green gown with elegant wide skirts and long, full sleeves that were fashionably cut to reveal a gold chemise beneath. The golden light caressed the silky texture of her loose red hair and played on the smoothness of her breasts revealed by the low cut of her bodice.

Her color was high, her step bold as she entered the chamber. And Jules had never seen her look so beautiful, or more compelling.

“Merciful heavens,” David murmured beside Jules. “She is a woman any man would find hard to ignore.”

Jules did not intend to ignore her this night, if ever again. He caught her gaze, and she returned it as though he were the only other person in the room. She came forward, as regal as a queen, as alluring as a goddess, as defiant as a warrior going into battle. Yet he could still see a hint of uncertainty in her eyes.

That uncertainty moved him like nothing else ever had. This woman was as rare as they came—honest, true, and innocent. His body hardened, the blood rushing to a part of him that always responded to her nearness.

She stopped before him and smiled. Her hand came up to flutter across the swelling at his cheek and what remained of his black eye. “Does it pain you much?”

“I hardly notice.”

“I am glad to hear that,” she replied tenderly as she held out her hand. “Would you care to escort me to our wedding feast, my husband?”

She was asking for more than an escort.

He knew this moment of decision would come since he had returned home a few hours ago. He fully understood the consequences of what would happen if he let her into his heart tonight. He knew what was at risk if he gave in.

He looked down at the hand she extended. So strong, so small, so capable, and so very talented.

And yet, her fingers trembled.

Without further hesitation, he closed his fingers around hers. “My lady,” he said, loud enough for those gathered close to hear. He held her hand as they moved toward the tables that had been set up at the far end of the room. “You are beautiful tonight,” he said close to her ear.

“You are stunning yourself,” she said with a smile of appreciation at the creamy white shirt he wore beneath the MacIntyre tartan. He had dressed for her tonight, and for the first time in a very long while he was actually proud of his family’s heritage, proud of the MacIntyre name—a name he had passed on to her through their marriage.

He stopped in the center of the chamber and studied her face. “You, milady, have not been entirely honest with me.”

She stiffened, then paled. “What . . . what do you mean?”

“I’m no fool, Claire,” he said gently. “I knew you were up to something in this chamber the first time I found you here.” He tipped his head back and stared up at the ceiling, at the incredible painting she had begun. “Why did you not tell me then that you wished to paint?”

She forced a laugh. “You wanted nothing to do with me when I first arrived. Had I asked you then, you would have said no. I could not risk that. I had to do something to this chamber to rid it of all the painful memories.”

“You were right.” For the first time in years Jules did not feel the anger, resentment, or even the fear that usually came to him whenever he thought about this room, his stepmother, her murder, or his incarceration. He remained silent a moment then said, “However, when you told me about your work as an artist, you seriously understated your talents.”

She shrugged. “I learned long ago that most people do not believe a woman can paint.”

“I would say they are wrong.”

“You would be one of the few,” she said softly.

He smiled then. “Tonight, no one can argue with what they see.”

Again she shrugged. “I have already heard two people say they believe I had help from a painter in the village. A man.”

“Did you?”

Her eyes narrowed. “No.”

Jules squeezed her hand and started walking again toward the head table at the front of the room. “Then who cares what they say. We know the truth.”

Instead of his support making her happy, that ever-present sadness came back into her eyes. Regardless, she forced a smile. “Thank you for saying that. I don’t know what I would have done had you made me stop painting.”

“You can paint every wall in this old house, and when you are done here, I will buy you more walls to paint.” They reached the head table and Jules pulled out a chair for her to sit beside him. Jane and Nicholas were seated to his left. David was seated on Claire’s right, then Margaret and Hollister.

The rest of their guests had found their seats at long tables that ran perpendicular to the head table. Space for dancing remained in the back of the room for when the banquet ended. Jules marveled at the feast Claire and the new cook, Mrs. Jarve, had been able to pull together in such a short period of time. Roast venison and turnips, boiled capon, salmon, shrimp, sausages, quince pie, frangipane, and custard tarts were served by the new servants Jane and Margaret had hired in the village.