Page 10 of To Serve a Laird
“My goodness,” he said, “is dropping books a hobby of yours? You are very good at it.”
The remark was meant to be a joke, but Claire did not seem to find it funny.
“I-I’m sorry, my Laird,” she said, her voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to do any harm.”
She dropped to her knees and began to pick up the books, but Iain reached down and drew her to her feet again. In the process, he cut his finger on the damaged cover of one of the books.
Claire gasped when she saw the blood welling from his finger and immediately produced a handkerchief from her pocket.
“My fault,” she said as she handed it to him. “I am so clumsy.”
Iain frowned as he looked at the handkerchief. It was made of fine linen and embroidered with the initialsC.T.in a decorative script.
“You’re no working-class woman,” he observed. “Who are you?”
Claire flushed, hoping that the dimness would hide her embarrassment. Iain led her over to the dying fireplace and threw another log on it, then ushered her into the other armchair so that she was facing him.
“Now,” he said calmly. “Answer my question.”
Claire took a deep breath. “My father is a merchant,” she began, then paused to clear her throat and collect her thoughts. “He is also a compulsive gambler. He has lost all our family’s money at the gaming tables and seems to think the only way of saving us all is by selling his daughters. My sister Rose was employed as a governess to Laird MacTavish’s daughter. Now they are happily married, but there is no need for you to worry. I have no such ambitions.”
She wanted to reassure him, but her sense of humour reared its mischievous head. Iain grinned. Beautiful, intelligent, well-read, and now funny. She was everything he had ever needed and wanted.
But whatever else she was now, or ever had been, she had been employed as a maid, and she had to keep her lowly status. In his position as a Laird, he had to marry a woman of status, and a maid, no matter how well-read and educated, simply would not do.
Why am I even thinking this way?he thought angrily.
She went on, “I had a reasonably sized library at home, and I gobbled up books so fast that my sisters laughed at me. They would far rather be doing other things like climbing trees,although we all liked playing chess and backgammon, but my father put paid to that.” Her voice was wistful.
As Iain listened, he realised that this subject meant a lot to her. An active mind like hers must be slowly suffocating in the leaden, unstimulating atmosphere in which she found herself. He knew how he would feel without his books—absolutely miserable, and he guessed that Claire felt likewise.
“I agree with you about your love of books, and I share it,” he said. “What do you like best? Love stories?”
Iain had no idea why he asked the question, but looking into Claire’s eyes, now shining honey-gold in the firelight, he felt a desperate desire to wrap his arms around her and kiss her senseless.
He told himself not to be so fanciful, but it was no good; the idea was now firmly planted in his mind, although at that moment he did not act on it.
Claire laughed. “Just because I am a woman, my Laird, it does not signify that I only like love stories. They have their place, of course, but I love reading, and not just the usual kind of books you might expect women to read. I love finding out about things, teaching myself how to do things. I know that such knowledge will be all but useless here, but there is nothing wrong with the pursuit of it.”
“Indeed, learning is never wasted,” he agreed. “I may never captain a sailing ship, but I can do it in my mind because there is no limit to the information a person’s brain can hold.”
He smiled at her, realising he would be happy to sit and talk to Claire all night. She really was a remarkable woman.
Claire suddenly looked at the clock and realised that it was almost midnight. She gave a little gasp and said in panic, “I must go, my Laird. I have to rise very early in the morning.”
Iain nodded slowly as Claire curtsied to him. “Pick up the books you dropped,” he ordered. “And bring them back once you have read them.”
Claire’s eyes widened with surprise. “My Laird, you mean… I can borrow them?”
“That is exactly what I mean,” Iain replied, loving the expression of gratitude and happiness on her face.
“Thank you, my Laird!” Claire cried, almost overcome with emotion. “I will take great care of them and return them undamaged, I promise.”
“You will need these too,” Iain said as he handed her two beeswax candles. “They’re much better than the other sort.”
Claire could say nothing because her throat was choked with gratitude. She took the candles, retrieved the books, and turned to him again.
“Thank you, my Laird. You are so kind.”
