Page 26 of To Serve a Laird
As well as that, there was the ongoing problem of constantly having to dodge Iain Ross. However, as hard as she tried, she could not always avoid him, and whenever he passed her in the corridor he would look at her in a way that always made her heart race and her knees go weak.
It was not an expression that anyone else noticed, since it was too subtle and understood only by both of them, but it always left her unsettled and unable to concentrate. She had perfected the art of keeping her face as rigid as a marble statue, however, and never gave her emotions away.
That day, though, Claire was fortunate enough to avoid the Laird completely, and she managed to somehow knuckle down to her work, almost completely succeeding in banishing him from her mind. She planned to go to the healer that evening to get some valerian tea to help her to sleep, but in the meantime she struggled on.
The air had been heavy, warm and clammy all day, and the heavens were threatening a thunderstorm, with heavy bruise-coloured clouds sitting on the horizon; the rain would be torrential, the lightning fearsome. Iain usually loved the deep, rumbling boom of the thunderclaps, and he thought that now astorm was peculiarly appropriate because it matched his mood exactly.
He had a meeting with Dougal McMahon that day, and he was not looking forward to it. Usually, he loved seeing his friend, but he had a feeling that Dougal would find a way to talk about his upcoming betrothal.
Dougal looked his usual congenial self when he entered Iain’s office. The two men shook hands, and Dougal sat across the desk from Iain, his eyes focused intently on the Laird’s face.
“Something is bothering you, Iain,” he stated. “You look exhausted. What’s troubling you?”
“Nothing much,” Iain replied. He rubbed his forehead. “I spent the whole day and some of the early morning doing the accounts, that’s all, and I have a bit of a headache.”
Dougal gave him a sceptical look. Clearly he had his doubts about what Iain had just said, but he did not voice them. “You should get yourself a competent steward to help you,” he declared. “I know one or two who might fit the bill.”
Dougal had spoken about this subject to Iain many times before, since he wanted his son to fill the position. Andrew McMahon was eighteen years old, as wild as a young colt, and Dougal wanted him to be trained for a responsible profession that would help him to mature into a man of substance.
Iain could never see that happening, however. Andrew needed to be tamed before he could mature!
“If you mean Andy,” he replied, “he is far more suited for battle. Send him to me and I will make him into a guard.”
Dougal groaned. “I will not,” he replied. “Andy has too many fine qualities that will be wasted in a profession like that.” His tone was scathing.
“Are you saying my guards are eejits?” Iain asked, frowning.
“Of course not,” Dougal replied. “But I want something where he uses his god-given talents.”
What talents?Iain thought. He did not have a high opinion of the young man, and Dougal knew it.
Iain went to pour them each a glass of wine just as the first rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.
Dougal studied him over the rim of his glass as he sipped his drink. Suddenly, he said, “There is a woman you like, is there not, Iain?” he asked. “That is why you are resisting marriage?”
Although he had half-expected Dougal to bring up the subject of his upcoming betrothal, his friend’s approach startled him. This was not what he had expected at all.
“Of course not!” he replied indignantly, but the expression on his face gave the lie to his statement. He dropped his gaze to his wine glass and took a sip, avoiding Dougal’s eyes. He was aware that his face probably gave away embarrassment and guilt.
Dougal acted as if Iain had not spoken.
“Will you share her name with me?” Dougal asked, “or do I have to guess?”
Iain felt his face become even hotter than before. He looked his friend directly in the eye. “I told you there is no one,” he replied furiously.
“I think I know,” Dougal said firmly. “Are you in love with her?”
“No,” Iain replied. “Because she does not exist.”
His voice was throbbing with rage, yet Dougal read doubt in it.
“I see,” he said. “Well, if you are not attracted to your future wife and all you want is a woman to attend to your bodily needs, I’m sure there are plenty of those around. You can probably take your pick.”
Iain stared at him, aghast. “You are suggesting I should take a mistress if I marry?” he asked, shocked.
It was the same thing he had been contemplating only a short while before, but somehow when his staid, conservative friend said it, it sounded sinful, even obscene.
“Do you have a mistress?” Iain asked angrily.
