Page 22 of To Serve a Laird
Time passed, and Claire gradually settled into her new home and work as well as she could. For the most part, she kept quiet and avoided conversation with the rest of the maids, and when she could not avoid seeing Iain, she curtsied then looked at the floor before fleeing.
One day, a few weeks after the awkward scene at the healer’s, she was perched on a high stool doing her best to get rid of the stubborn dirt that had crusted onto the window frames. She wondered how long it had been since anyone had bothered about them. Probably years. Had they saved it just for her?
The rest of the maids had calmed down a little and were not treating her with the same spite and disdain as they had done before. They still talked about her—Claire was not naïve enough to think that they had all learned to like her overnight—but there was definitely a subtle change for the better in their attitude.
They were all giggling at something, a joke Claire had not been let into, and she sighed and turned to resume her labours, this time with a different window. Then she stopped as she saw Iain outside, and her mouth fell open in shock. She had never seen any man whose body was so magnificent.
Her eyes widened as she took in the powerful muscles of his arms, shoulders, and chest, which tensed and rippled with every fluid movement of his superb body. He sported the white marks of many healed scars on his torso and his arms, and Claire wondered if they had all been acquired in battle.
She could not take her eyes off him as he wielded his huge broadsword, parrying and thrusting, moving backwards, forwards and sideways, dodging and weaving in a graceful but aggressive dance. His opponent was as fierce and pugnacious as he was, and although everyone was aware that this was not a real fight to the death, the two adversaries genuinely looked as if they might kill each other!
Even though their swords were blunt, the illusion was still there, and as Claire watched, she felt afraid for Iain’s safety, since his antagonist looked so determined. Claire was reminded of a fight she had once seen between two stags in mating season, when she had seriously thought they would kill each other.
The weather, for once, was warm and humid, heralding the arrival of a thunderstorm, and the Laird’s body was glistening with perspiration as he pushed himself to the limit of his endurance and finally finished off his enemy.
The thrust was executed with the point of Iain’s sword driving into his adversary’s heart, and would have killed the other man in a split second if it had been a sharp sword and a real battle, but fortunately, it was not. The guard staggered backwards for a few steps, then, to Claire’s astonishment, began to laugh and extended his hand so that Iain could shake it.
“Well done, M’Laird,” he said. “A good contest, but I will get my own back next time!”
Iain threw back his head and laughed heartily, then patted his former enemy on the back. “Challenge accepted!”
At that moment he looked up, and for a second, his eyes caught Claire’s and their gazes locked, but only for a split second before Claire turned away to resume her duties.
Her heart was hammering, she could feel the heat in her face and knew that her cheeks had flushed bright red. She kept her eyes on what she was doing, but her mind was somewhere else.
That look—intense, hungry, almost predatory. Did he want her as much as she wanted him, despite having stayed away from him for weeks? No, that was impossible. She had nothing to offer him, and anyway, he was betrothed, no matter how much the fact probably disgusted him.
Arranged marriages were common in the way his level of society, and Claire knew this because she had once inhabited it herself. They were nearly always deeply unhappy matches.
Claire’s shoulders and arms had become used to the constant exertion of scrubbing and polishing, and it no longer pained her to do the menial tasks that had been assigned to her. Most of the time she could keep her mind occupied by thinking about her sisters, her memories, her books, but not now.
Now, her head was full of images of Iain’s body, his rippling muscles flexing and stretching, polished by the glistening sheen of sweat and sunshine. As the images crowded into her mind, Claire wished she could run after Iain and throw herself into his arms, but she became furious with herself again. It was not to be. It would never happen, and she knew that she must accept it, but somehow she could not.
Claire sighed as she thought of Rose, knowing that her sister was the only one who could help her in this situation. Her letter, which Claire had sent a few weeks before, should have been delivered by now, and she was sure that Rose would answer at once, so her reply should arrive soon.
She climbed down from the ladder on which she had been standing and went to find Agnes. She was in her office, writing,something Claire had never seen her actually doing before, but looked up when Claire entered the room.
“Aye, I can write,” she said dryly at the sight of her surprised look.
Claire had known this, of course, but it was still very surprising to see her doing it.
“I have finished the windows you told me to clean,” she reported.
“Let me come an’ see if ye have done it right.”
Agnes got to her feet and walked along the corridor to the row of windows on which Claire had been busy. She raised her eyebrows in surprise when she saw them.
“Ye’re gettin’ better, hen.”
She smiled at Claire, who smiled back, feeling inordinately pleased at the other woman’s praise.
“Thank you,” she said, with a deferential little nod. “What would you like me to do next?”
Agnes began to walk back the way they had come, but Claire cast one last glance out of the window to see if the Laird was there before she followed her. Sadly, he was not, but a moment later, she found out why.
“The Laird always has a bath after his practice,” Agnes said. “So you an’ two o’ the other girls can carry some buckets o’ hot water up fae the kitchen. Make sure the bath is full, mind. He hates a half empty tub!”
Claire dutifully filled up one of the buckets and carried it up to the Laird’s chamber. She was the last one to deposit her water in the tub, and was half-pleased, half-disappointed to see that Iain was not there; pleased because of the look they had exchanged earlier on, and disappointed because she would have loved to see that magnificent body again.
