With that, she resumed her work.
Caleb continued to watch her.
The latter.
It had absolutely been the latter.
Either way, she was a better person than he was. For, how many times had he taunted her, delighting in needling her because of her birthright? Because of her sense of privilege? Because of his resentment of her love of what he’d once loved? Because she’d also given as good as she’d gotten?
“Why?” he asked suspiciously. Why, when they’d never gotten along and always taken equal delight and riling each other?
This time, Claire stopped altogether. Snapping her book closed and stealing all possibility of his seeing what her muse had compelled her to create, she set her sketch pad aside. “I’m an artist,” she said simply. “Not a good one, as you’ve pointed out. No one will purchase my work. Nor am I one even inclined to work toward such a goal.” She was methodical and matter-of-fact as she spoke. Not a person looking to be pitied or who felt pitiable, and he respected that directness. “I love it. I do it… for me. And as someone who loves to sketch and paint, who has found escape in filling pages with”—her lips twisted wryly—“mediocre sketches…”
Caleb winced, recognizing as his own that straightforward statement he’d once tossed her way, one that he’d actually not even meant as an insult.
“I cannot imagine,” she went on, “what it would be like to lose any sense of the fulfillment I find in my work.”
It was hell. It was a gut-wrenching, sweat-inducing misery that left a person feeling incomplete. Unfulfilled. She was on the mark in every way.
Their gazes locked, hers knowing and compassionate and so damned unnerving that he had to look away.
“I’m going to find it,” he said, directing that vow to the mattress he and Claire had stripped down to the frame. “It’s not gone.” It couldn’t be. For, what would he be without it? Who was he, other than some broken-down soldier who’d been a victim and who’d lost his betrothed and family? “I’ll find it.”
“Oh, I’m sure of it,” Claire said cheerfully, with a confidence that he didn’t feel.
He didn’t even know if it was possible, but he knew this plan Wade had hatched was his last best shot. A plan that involved him… married. Not that it would be a real marriage. It would be as much a business arrangement as his tours of Europe had become.
Claire reached for her sketch pad.
Caleb shot a hand out, resting his larger, scarred, and paint-stained palm over her smaller, softer, delicate… and charcoal-marred one.
A charge, like the air on the ocean right before a storm raged, flared between them. “I…” He cleared his throat. “I…” He tried again several times.
Claire gave him a soft, encouraging look. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry.” The two words emerged gruff and harsh.
The lady’s brow dipped, and then understanding lit her eyes. A light, tinkling laugh bubbled from her lips, soft and warm and… real. Unlike the humorless expressions of empty mirth he often released. “Because of what you said about my mediocre work? You’ve only been honest. I’d not have you resorting to soothing my wounded pride now, Caleb.” She leaned in and dropped her voice to an exaggeratedly low whisper. “Furthermore, I was not so arrogant as to believe myself incapable of learning from you or developing my skills. If I had been, I wouldn’t have asked you, Caleb.” With that, she drew her fingers from under his and grabbed her sketch pad back.
For the first time in his life, he hated a sketch pad, for having stolen those long, graceful fingers from his.
Resented a sketch pad?
He wanted to hold Claire Poplar’s hand?
What in holy hell was this madness?
God, he’d gone temporarily insane. No, he had been insane since his capture. This was just a new variation of insanity.
“So what are you doing?”
Claire paused and lifted a puzzled gaze to his. “I’m sketch—”
“That is, what are you doing in this godforsaken corner of an already godforsaken country?”
The lady didn’t blink for several moments. “Oh.” With that, Claire fell silent, glancing down at the pencil in her left hand.
“Didn’t think I was going to ask?” he asked when she still didn’t speak. How could she believe that he, best friend to her sister-in-law, wouldn’t have? And if he’d not been attempting to save her from herself in the taproom, and then nearly making love to her, he very well would have earlier.
At last, Claire picked her head up, meeting his gaze with the same spirited directness she always had. “I’d hoped that you wouldn’t delve. I don’t want to involve you.”
“Yeah, well, the minute you wandered through the front door of this place and took on every other patron in the taproom, I kind of was.”
“I didn’t take on…” She wrinkled her nose. “You’re teasing.”
Caleb winked.
She didn’t smile, however. Instead, there was some vague melding of melancholy and wariness. For a moment, he expected she’d be as stubborn as the useless English sun and hold on to whatever secret she clearly weighed sharing.
Secrets meant trouble.
And any secret from this woman meant complication. Because of who she was. Because of his connection to her sister-in-law.
But then, Claire sighed. “I’m meeting my betrothed.”
A branch snapped in the fireplace behind them, the crackling of the flames being fed the only sound to be heard.
Of anything Claire Poplar could have said, that had been the last he would have expected.
“Your betrothed?” he echoed, because, hell, it really needed clarifying.
She nodded.
“Without Poppy or the baron or your mother or sister.”
Using the tip of her pencil, she punctuated each of the next words as she spoke them. “Yes. Yes. Yes. And yes.” With that, she put that measly little scrap between her fingers back to use on the shadowy page he’d been trying to make out.
Not any longer.
“You’re getting married?” he asked bluntly.
“Mm-hmm.” Claire proceeded to hum.
In his time aboard a British ship, he’d learned a thing or two about humming. It was a tool. A distraction. All the men who’d gone mad had hummed.
Claire’s, however, had a soft, gentle cadence that had no traces of insanity or panic or fear. Rather, it was a sweet, wordless melody that had shades of romance, her voice so clear and the melody even clearer of a popular folk song.
Down in my father’s garden
When first my love met me
He threw his arms around my neck
And embraced me tenderly
We both sat down upon the ground
For to complete our joy
Go where ye will,
And I love him still,
He’s my darling plowman boy.
Through the years, all of Caleb’s time and efforts were spent on his artwork. Wade handled the business that allowed Caleb to do the only thing he truly cared about in life.
But when Wade had concocted a harebrained plan to free Caleb up by having him marry a faceless, desperate English lady, Caleb had been sure to lay out clear expectations of what that deal would entail. There was to be no romantic entanglement. He and the woman would be business partners, and love and affection would not be part of the arrangement. As there wouldn’t be a real marriage in any sense of the word, with both living apart, each of them would be free to find companionship where and how they would, without hurt feelings.