Caleb ignored him and continued working. Now that he and Claire had arrived, he could keep to his own company and paint. And she could occupy herself with that sketch pad. That way, he wouldn’t have to worry about how badly he wanted to make love to her—fully and completely. Or think about how many regrets he’d have that he’d never know her body in every way there was to know a woman.
Thump, thump—
Or just how much he enjoyed being with her.
Caleb’s hammer slipped and caught the side of his thumb. With a black curse, he dropped the instrument.
“Problem.”
“It’s not a problem,” he clipped out, giving his hand a hard shake in a bid to ease the throbbing. “I’ve hit my damned finger any number of times.”
When he’d been a boy just learning how to make and mix paints.
His attention still directed out the window, Wade shot a peculiar look over his shoulder. “What?”
It hit him that the other man had not been referencing Caleb’s amateurish slip with the hammer. “What the hell are you talking about?” he countered.
“I… It appears the lady is leaving after all.”
The… lady was…?
“Miss Poplar,” his friend clarified, as if there were another young lady in residence.
What the hell?
Racing out from behind the table, Caleb sprinted across the room, skidding to a stop at the window. He scoured the grounds below and immediately found her.
It would be near impossible not to see her.
Attired in an emerald-green silk cloak that fairly shimmered with her every move, the lady was the lone splash of color amidst the otherwise monotone landscape.
His brow dipped.
No, that was not the only color. There was also the floral valise she carried, holding it with two hands as she headed toward the steps that emptied out into the grounds below. Every step she took highlighted just how deep the snowfall, in fact, was.
“Where the hell is she going?” he breathed to himself.
Wade chuckled. “As I said, it appears the lady intends to leave.”
Leave? She intended to take her damned things and head out on foot in this miserable weather? Which would mean she was that desperate to be rid of him. Which really shouldn’t offend him. He was the one rushing to head to Paris. As such, the lady was certainly entitled to wanting to get on with her life, too. And—
He growled.
None of that clear reasoning helped.
Turning on his heel, Caleb set out across the room, Wade’s laughter following after him.
Cloak and bonnet on, Claire marched her way outside, her valise in hand.
Upon her arrival yesterday morn, in a matter of just minutes, Claire had gone from falling head over heels in love with Night’s Keep to the realization she would never be the lady of this estate.
It had been just another disappointment. One future she’d hoped to have, replaced with uncertainty and the misery of what these past years had been.
Soon, she’d be required to return to London.
Were it discovered she was here, alone, her reputation—what was left of it—would be beyond ruin. Was that even really possible, though? There weren’t suitors, and there was certainly not going to be a marriage, for her or for Faye. She and Faye had accepted as much. Granted, their mercenary mother had not given up hope for those great matches she’d always aspired to for them.
And if… when… she returned, that was what awaited Claire. Being paraded around from event to event with Mother acting as though no scandal had embroiled the family. As if she wasn’t responsible for the suffering and strife inflicted upon the rightful Earl of Maxwell.
No, Claire was certainly in no rush to head back to any of that.
As such, she’d continued her exploration of the intriguingly dark household that belonged to Caleb. Largely done in what was surely the original stone of centuries ago, there were also additions that had been done to the place that hadn’t been visible when sitting outside in the carriage yesterday.
There was also an attic filled with the most unique contraptions and devices that had left her wondering about the last person to call this place home.
And skates. There’d been skates, too.
Those skates accounted for this newest exploration of Night’s Keep and the properties beyond.
Claire reached the end of the terrace.
For, skates implied the presence of lakes and ponds. And frozen lakes and ponds also meant—
“What the hell are you doing?” That booming voice slashed over the countryside, startling a shriek from Claire, and she lost her grip upon her bag.
The valise tumbled down a handful of steps, the snowfall stopping its descent.
She turned a glare on the tall man striding along the same path she’d just taken. Only, where she’d ambled and been slow of step, he moved with quick, steady, and purposeful strides, wholly unaffected by the snow.
“Were you trying to knock me down the stairs?” Her heart knocked hard and fast.
And yet, it pounded not just from the unexpectedness of his arrival, but because of the newfound cadence the organ had adopted whenever this man was near.
“Was I trying to knock you down?” he bellowed. “The better question is, are you trying to get yourself killed, Claire Poplar?”
The warm, teasing, and approachable man of these past days had gone, replaced by the familiar figure of her past recollections.
It was better he was this way. She preferred this to his warmer side, as it would be easier to part with the bear of a man.
He stopped several feet away, scowling. The wind and cold had brought a sharp red color to his cheeks in the illusion of a blush. That, coupled with the crude cap he wore atop his disheveled curls, gave an almost-endearing boyish quality to him.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
“Where am I g-going?” she repeated slowly, her teeth trembling from the cold.
He glanced past her, and she followed his furious stare to the valise resting wrong side up.
Then it hit her. “You think I was leaving!”
“No,” he said quickly.
“Yes.” Collecting her hems, heavy from the melting snow, she lifted them and trudged forward. “Yes, you did.”
He bristled. “All right. I did.”
“I should,” she shot back. “But worry not. I’m still here, and I’ll say when I leave.”
Caleb scoffed. “Do you think I’d make you a prisoner?”
No, she thought he’d happily be rid of her, and she’d sooner lop off her painting arm than admit that hurt as it did.
Claire crossed her arms and struck a pose with her foot. “One can never say, Mr. Gray.” After all, he had commanded her journey through North Yorkshire.
“Mr. Gray again, am I?” His voice had assumed its usual low, surly growl.
She couldn’t tamp down the sadness that brought her lips up into a small smile. “You were always Mr. Gray.” It had been everything else that had been an all-too-brief pretend—their friendship, their laughter.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means there were just a couple of days”—she held up fingers—“where we got on, and you clearly only did so to suit your purposes.” With that, she marched off again, careful to follow the same path she’d set prior that had left her bootsteps as indentations. Those traces made her steps easier and her pace quicker.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he barked.
Hmph. As if he had a right to that indignation.
Claire didn’t slow her stride. Rather, she lengthened it as she gripped the snow-covered rail and headed down the stairs. The glide of her hand knocked free powdery white inches of snow as she went. “You said that already.”
“Because it was another ridiculous statement that merited the same question, Your Majesty.”
Your Majesty.
She gritted her teeth, despi
sing all over again that infuriating moniker he’d saddled her with. “I’m not your anything, King Caleb.” Claire reached the bottom of the steps, and adjusting the hold she had on her burden, she sought to put even more distance between herself and this man she alternately wanted to kiss and slug.
“King?” He emitted a sharp laugh that followed her down a long graveled path that spilled out into the vast Yorkshire countryside.
“What?” She dropped her sack, and it landed with a thump. Holding her hands aloft, Claire waggled her gloved fingers. “Because you’re a big Americannn?” she taunted in her best interpretation of an American accent, squeezing several syllables into that last word for good measure. “So you know absolutely nothing about tyranny? Well, let me enlighten you. A king is one who exerts his authority over people and…” Claire nudged her chin his way and nodded once.
A gust of wind sent a lock of hair tumbling against his deeply furrowed brow. “What are you saying?” he demanded.
“Oh, you know, Caleb Gray.” She paused. “You know.”
With that, she retrieved her hefty sack once more and set to work lugging it toward the open fields below.
There came the crunch and crackle of snow. Caleb slid himself in her way, halting her trek.
“What now?” she asked on a huff.
He leaned down, shrinking a healthy bit of the space between them so she could clearly see the flare of his nostrils and the outrage glimmering in his dark eyes. “Are you suggesting I’m like one of your oppressive kings?”
“Ordering my coach driver to leave me?” she shot back. “Insisting I accompany you? Dictating the terms of my staying and going?” Her angry tirade left a little cloud of white as she spoke. “If the crown fits, King Caleb.” Claire made a show of adjusting an imaginary chaplet atop her head.
For one moment, she thought she might have gone too far. His eyes grew dark, incandescent with his rage, and his tall, broad frame shook, and she’d wager her very life that his tremble had not a thing to do with the cold.
Presented with that rage, she did all that she could to diffuse it.
Abandoning her provisions, Claire hastily assembled a snowball, and then straightening, she let it fly.
That damp missile hit him square in the nose, exploding and leaving his eyes and the angular planes of his face covered in white.
Caleb went absolutely motionless, and then ever so slowly, he wiped the remnants of her attack from his face. “Did you just—?”
Claire’s next snowball immediately found its mark, undoing all his efforts.
He growled and then charged forward.
With a squeal, Claire took off running as quick as she was able up a slight incline. Her skirts hampered her efforts and slowed her stride, but she pressed on.
Something struck her hard between the shoulder blades, pulling a gasp from her. She angled a furious glare over her shoulder. “How dare—?”
She ducked just as he tossed another snowball her way. Unlike the other, this one sailed past her shoulder. “Hmph. Not so very good at this after—”
He sent another one flying, and she shifted, this one grazing the top of her bonnet and knocking it loose.
“Oh, you are insufferable,” Claire hissed, and pausing in her climb, she hastily constructed another missile, and even as she slowly steadied herself, she hurled it the handful of paces back at him. “This is for being rude.”
With a grim little smile, he took the shot to the middle of his chest, the projectile exploding upon the midnight jacket he wore.
Caleb cupped his hands around his mouth. “What else do you got, My Queen?” With that, he held his arms open in invitation.
Oh, the great lummox. Fury was so hot that she couldn’t even feel the cold that had her teeth knocking together. “A-and this is for c-calling me My Queen.” She puffed from the cold and her exertions. “I hate”—with each word, she tossed another snowball at his dark jacket—“that silly form of address.” She launched another snowball, which took his hat off. She let out a cry of triumph, and gathering up her hems, Claire sprinted as best as she was able.
“I allowed those other shots, Claire Poplar,” he drawled. “But that was a step too far.” He lunged.
On a breathless laugh, she darted to the left.
Shockingly agile for one of his immense height and breadth, he matched her movements perfectly.
Claire bolted right, zigzagging as she went, and raced ahead, with Caleb in pursuit.
“Hellcat,” he shouted, catching her square in the back with a snowball of his own. The wet, compact missile burst upon impact, and Claire laughed. His own amusement blended with hers, sincere and real, and the sound of it left her buoyant.
She raced on. Even as he could have overtaken her, he was content with the game they now played.
Her earlier anger with him faded. Where anger had once come so easily to her, now it was impossible to hold tight to that sentiment whenever he was near. And she wanted to. Lord, how she wanted to. Because that would make their parting so much easier.
Shoving aside the melancholy thought, Claire shrieked and fell to a knee.
Caleb’s laughter cut out. “Claire!” He was immediately there, on a knee beside her, his features a study of concern. “Are you all—”
Raising a hand filled with snow, she wiped it over his face and mouth.
His dark eyebrows shot up. “Oh, you hellcat.” He was already reaching for her.
Claire squeaked and used her bent knee to propel herself upright, but it was too late.
Catching her by the waist, Caleb brought her down the remainder of the way.
Only, he suddenly shifted, reversing them so that he came down on his back with her draped across him.
Their chests rose and fell, both from their playful exertions and the biting cold.
Something different sprang to life between them. His gaze caught upon her mouth, and of its own volition, her tongue came out, and she traced that seam.
She now recognized this emotion as passion. Desire. Because this man who now held her had been the one to open her soul to those gifts.
His eyes shifted slightly, locking with hers, and as one, their smiles faded.
Some years ago, Faye had shown her a rendering of an operation that had been performed, where hypnosis had been used to sedate the patient. Initially horrified by the drawing, Claire had looked away, only to be drawn back to the wide-eyed, unblinking focus that had been created in that patient. For surely it was impossible to be held so ensnared as to be incapable of so much as moving one’s lashes.
But with Caleb’s eyes threatening to cut across her very soul, she understood the power of that connection and the intensity so great as to blot out even the sting of winter’s most merciless cold.
He raised a gloved hand and palmed her cheek. Despite the damp leather, his touch managed to be a soft caress against her cold cheek. “I had fun.”
Claire propped her chin on his chest. “Now or these past days?”
“All of ’em,” he said, so readily that honesty could be the only driver of that response.
“Me, too,” she murmured.
Alas, inevitably, all good moments came to an end. She knew that better than anyone.
When had she frolicked so?
These past years, she’d been so consumed by shame and remorse and pity.
He’d been right.
It was time to let go of the guilt over crimes that weren’t hers, that belonged to her parents. She could resent them for the evil they’d done. She could even hold on to the fury and outrage on behalf of the man who’d had so much taken from him. Claire could dedicate her life to helping men and women and children who were victims of injustice. But she needn’t continue to own decisions that she’d had no control over.
The realization left her light inside in a way that she’d never again thought to be.
And it was because of Caleb. He’d opened her eyes to all those realizations.
In o
ne fluid motion, Caleb managed to slip his hands around her waist and get her back on her feet. He leaped up, unfurling to his full, towering frame.
“Where were you headed?” he murmured, rubbing his hands together in the first real sign that the cold affected him.
Claire burrowed deeper into her cloak. “I w-was looking for a frozen pond,” she confessed. “I found skates.”
“Too cold to stay out here, wet as you are now.”
“P-perhaps.” The increased chattering of her teeth served only to illustrate his point.
“Come on,” he said gruffly and rushed off, stopping periodically to collect the items they’d lost in their battle.
Claire hesitated a moment, looking out at the sun beginning to peek through the blanket of clouds overhead. The storm had ended. The roads would soon be passable.
There would be no sketching the winterscape. There would be no skating. There would be no more snowball fights.
And there would be no him.
Caleb.
Besieged by the urge to cry, she blinked the tears back, fighting desperately to conceal them.
Caleb rejoined her. “Here.”
She immediately seized her bonnet from his fingers and slammed the velvet-lined article atop her head. Then, for good measure, she brought her hood up over her head. All the while, her fingers shook.
Wordlessly, she and Caleb set out for the manor, and as they did, she glanced all around, letting her artist’s gaze take in all the details so that she could one day capture the beauty of this place. So that she could hang on to those details long after she’d left.
For soon, this moment—nay, these moments of found joy—would be nothing more than memories.
Except…
As they continued down the same path they’d followed, Claire frowned.
Why did this have to be it? a voice whispered, tempted, challenged. Perhaps she didn’t have to leave after all.
They reached the end of the walkway, and Caleb motioned for her to go on ahead.
But Claire stopped, her foot hovering over the imprint she’d left on this very step moments ago. Why had she not thought of it? Because of the sudden, unexpected development in finding her intended was not the intended she’d thought to find waiting for her. That initial shock, however, had faded, and now? Why, now it made so much sense.
A Groom of Her Own (Scandalous Affairs Book 1) Page 19