at him that way, not anymore. It made him feel helpless, and he had worked hard to be anything but the victim he had once been forced to play.
“I’m sorry for that.”
In her voice he heard not pity, but softness, a gentle acceptance that left him just as on edge as her pity had done. “Life is seldom what we want it to be,” Jules said.
She leaned closer, and brought her hand up to cradle his cheek with an intimacy that was both gentle and sensuous. “It can be,” Claire whispered.
His body stirred at the confidence in the way she held him, at the heat of her touch. This was not the meek woman he had met that first day or the prideful woman he had dined with last night. This was a different woman altogether. Since he had left her this morning, she had found a strength he hadn’t anticipated. It was evident in the way she touched him, the way she looked at him—she looked not through him as others often did, but straight into his tattered soul.
He got to his feet suddenly. “I’m going fishing.”
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
“I’m sorry for that.”
In her voice he heard not pity, but softness, a gentle acceptance that left him just as on edge as her pity had done. “Life is seldom what we want it to be,” Jules said.
She leaned closer, and brought her hand up to cradle his cheek with an intimacy that was both gentle and sensuous. “It can be,” Claire whispered.
His body stirred at the confidence in the way she held him, at the heat of her touch. This was not the meek woman he had met that first day or the prideful woman he had dined with last night. This was a different woman altogether. Since he had left her this morning, she had found a strength he hadn’t anticipated. It was evident in the way she touched him, the way she looked at him—she looked not through him as others often did, but straight into his tattered soul.
He got to his feet suddenly. “I’m going fishing.”
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
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