The woman whom he married would have to understand that.
Wade had been free to pick whomever the hell he wanted, as long as those details were ironed out.
Those terms had come in large part because Caleb had no interest in putting himself through the suffering that had come at his previous fiancée’s hands. Details on fidelity had been carefully spelled out because, as a man who’d been made a cuckold of—and by his brother at that—he’d vowed to not take part in a similar betrayal.
Caleb sharpened his gaze on the woman sketching across from him. And then there was… Claire. She sat here, humming a damned love-sick song about this fiancé she was rushing off to meet? While just moments ago, she’d been coming undone in Caleb’s arms? Just like that, the brief kindred moment he’d shared with Claire faded.
It shouldn’t matter. Claire Poplar didn’t mean a damned thing to him. Not romantically, that was. He fisted his hands into hard balls, telling himself that over and over. What he resented like hell, however, was that he, who’d sworn to never get between any couple had, because of her failure to share the important detail about a fiancé, been forced into doing just that.
Her ability to take her pleasure in his arms while on her way to get married had shades of a betrayal he’d known firsthand when his sweetheart had moved on to his brother. All the while Caleb had been rotting in the bottom of a British ship.
As if you’re any different, a voice taunted. She might have initiated the embrace, pressing her body against his and kissing him, but he’d responded, too, and he hated himself as much for it.
With that sharp reminder, he got himself out of whatever madness had been let loose in this inn and focused on that which he needed to focus on—her being here alone.
He froze. Caleb silently damned, for altogether different reasons, the information he’d discovered. Because, now? Knowing that Poppy’s sister-in-law was being lured off by some English rascal meant Caleb was involved. He had to be.
A woman headed to a wedding to some other fellow was something he needed details on. Solely because of Poppy. That was the lone reason.
Unbidden, an idea slipped in of Claire unleashing that passion on some pale-faced, ruddy-cheeked English bastard.
“Well, who is he?” he demanded. An inexplicable iron-hot jealousy made his tone sharper than he intended.
Claire cocked her head. “What?”
Not for one damned moment did he believe the clever-witted Claire Poplar didn’t know exactly what he was asking. Fine. She wanted to play that game? He indulged her. “Not ‘what.’ Who? Who’s the lucky fellow?”
She bristled with an indignation only a queen could manage at being dealt an insult. “Hmph. I shall choose to ignore that sarcastic emphasis, Mr. Gray.”
Fine, so long as she provided the other details. “Well?”
“He’s a… gentleman.”
He snorted. “A gentleman who’s got you running away from your family, by mail carriage, without the benefit of an escort or companion? Yeah, he sounds like a regular old prince.” Not that he was at all surprised where an Englishman was concerned. The miserable bastards took only what they wanted and thought nothing of inflicting hurt on others. “Certain to be a great marriage.” In fairness, there really was no such thing as a great marriage.
Claire frowned and set her book aside. “I’ll have you know, we are… quite in love.”
There it was. Not the type of business arrangement he was about to enter into. Not that a romantic like Claire Poplar would. “Quite in love, are you?” he asked dryly.
She didn’t take the bait.
“He values my mind, and he sees me as an equal. He doesn’t wish to subjugate me. And I respect and admire him for respecting me.”
Caleb curved his lips up in a slow smile. “Does he also value your fidelity? Or does that not factor into your special relationship?” he drawled.
The color leached from her cheeks. “That is… fair enough.” Her voice emerged weaker than he’d ever heard.
It was one thing to hand out honest critique. It was another to level barbs meant to wound… which was precisely what he’d done, and damned if he didn’t feel like the same bully as her English compatriots who’d tortured him for two years of his life.
Claire cleared her throat. “As I said, what happened here should not have happened, and it will not happen again.”
“Damned straight it won’t,” he said tersely. “I’m not going to scratch your itch and make a cuckhold out of some man.”
A blush exploded on her cheeks. “That is offensive.”
He leaned in. “Yeah, well, I’d argue you finding your pleasure with me while being in love with another man is worse.”
Her gaze faltered, dipping to her lap, but not before he caught a glimmer of remorse and sadness in their depths. “Y-you are right.”
“So, tell me about this paragon who couldn’t be bothered to collect you.”
“My family wouldn’t approve.”
With good reason. A man who’d have her journey through the country on her own was hardly the manner of fellow one would have their daughter or sister, or sister-in-law, marry.
Claire narrowed her eyes. “Do not even think about it.”
“Wh—?”
“You are thinking to tell Tristan, and I forbid it. My brother-in-law is ill, and Tristan, along with my mother and Poppy have gone to help Christina. Furthermore, I am a grown woman capable of making my own decisions, and I certainly don’t need interference from you or anyone.” Her chest rose hard and fast, not unlike the frenzied cadence from when she’d been nearing her climax a short while ago.
Ah, so that was where the Poplars were.
“Caleb?” she demanded.
He nodded slowly. “Very well, Claire.” Surprise filled her revealing eyes. “I’m not going to tell your bastard of a brother.” Granted, he was dancing around the truth.
Given what she’d just shared however, about the gentleman looking after their other sister and her family, it now made sense both how Claire had managed to slip off with her family unawares, and why Bolingbroke hadn’t ridden like hell to get to his sister already.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I… appreciate that. Just as I appreciate your sharing your room with me.”
Her words and her tone were clearly meant to mark the end of their exchange.
Caleb climbed to his feet and found his way back over to his makeshift bed. And for some unexplainable reason, with his hands folded under his head as he stared at the ceiling overhead and listened to the frantic scratch of her pencil upon her page, he couldn’t shake the regret that the moment had come to an end.
Chapter 9
The following morn, Claire was greeted with a knock at the door and arose from her sleep to find the fire cold and Caleb… gone.
Knock, knock, knock.
Blinking back the fog of sleep, she peered at the still-dark sky. Hastily fetching her wrapper, she donned the article, belting it at the waist.
Knock, knock.
Catching the handle, Claire drew the door open a fraction, interrupting the remainder of that rapping.
A young woman’s enormous brown eyes met hers. “Good morning, Mrs. Gray.”