And if… when… she returned, that was what awaited Claire. Being paraded around from event to event with Mother acting as though no scandal had embroiled the family. As if she wasn’t responsible for the suffering and strife inflicted upon the rightful Earl of Maxwell.
No, Claire was certainly in no rush to head back to any of that.
As such, she’d continued her exploration of the intriguingly dark household that belonged to Caleb. Largely done in what was surely the original stone of centuries ago, there were also additions that had been done to the place that hadn’t been visible when sitting outside in the carriage yesterday.
There was also an attic filled with the most unique contraptions and devices that had left her wondering about the last person to call this place home.
And skates. There’d been skates, too.
Those skates accounted for this newest exploration of Night’s Keep and the properties beyond.
Claire reached the end of the terrace.
For, skates implied the presence of lakes and ponds. And frozen lakes and ponds also meant—
“What the hell are you doing?” That booming voice slashed over the countryside, startling a shriek from Claire, and she lost her grip upon her bag.
The valise tumbled down a handful of steps, the snowfall stopping its descent.
She turned a glare on the tall man striding along the same path she’d just taken. Only, where she’d ambled and been slow of step, he moved with quick, steady, and purposeful strides, wholly unaffected by the snow.
“Were you trying to knock me down the stairs?” Her heart knocked hard and fast.
And yet, it pounded not just from the unexpectedness of his arrival, but because of the newfound cadence the organ had adopted whenever this man was near.
“Was I trying to knock you down?” he bellowed. “The better question is, are you trying to get yourself killed, Claire Poplar?”
The warm, teasing, and approachable man of these past days had gone, replaced by the familiar figure of her past recollections.
It was better he was this way. She preferred this to his warmer side, as it would be easier to part with the bear of a man.
He stopped several feet away, scowling. The wind and cold had brought a sharp red color to his cheeks in the illusion of a blush. That, coupled with the crude cap he wore atop his disheveled curls, gave an almost-endearing boyish quality to him.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
“Where am I g-going?” she repeated slowly, her teeth trembling from the cold.
He glanced past her, and she followed his furious stare to the valise resting wrong side up.
Then it hit her. “You think I was leaving!”
“No,” he said quickly.
“Yes.” Collecting her hems, heavy from the melting snow, she lifted them and trudged forward. “Yes, you did.”
He bristled. “All right. I did.”
“I should,” she shot back. “But worry not. I’m still here, and I’ll say when I leave.”
Caleb scoffed. “Do you think I’d make you a prisoner?”
No, she thought he’d happily be rid of her, and she’d sooner lop off her painting arm than admit that hurt as it did.
Claire crossed her arms and struck a pose with her foot. “One can never say, Mr. Gray.” After all, he had commanded her journey through North Yorkshire.
“Mr. Gray again, am I?” His voice had assumed its usual low, surly growl.
She couldn’t tamp down the sadness that brought her lips up into a small smile. “You were always Mr. Gray.” It had been everything else that had been an all-too-brief pretend—their friendship, their laughter.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means there were just a couple of days”—she held up fingers—“where we got on, and you clearly only did so to suit your purposes.” With that, she marched off again, careful to follow the same path she’d set prior that had left her bootsteps as indentations. Those traces made her steps easier and her pace quicker.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he barked.
Hmph. As if he had a right to that indignation.
Claire didn’t slow her stride. Rather, she lengthened it as she gripped the snow-covered rail and headed down the stairs. The glide of her hand knocked free powdery white inches of snow as she went. “You said that already.”
“Because it was another ridiculous statement that merited the same question, Your Majesty.”
Your Majesty.
She gritted her teeth, despising all over again that infuriating moniker he’d saddled her with. “I’m not your anything, King Caleb.” Claire reached the bottom of the steps, and adjusting the hold she had on her burden, she sought to put even more distance between herself and this man she alternately wanted to kiss and slug.
“King?” He emitted a sharp laugh that followed her down a long graveled path that spilled out into the vast Yorkshire countryside.
“What?” She dropped her sack, and it landed with a thump. Holding her hands aloft, Claire waggled her gloved fingers. “Because you’re a big Americannn?” she taunted in her best interpretation of an American accent, squeezing several syllables into that last word for good measure. “So you know absolutely nothing about tyranny? Well, let me enlighten you. A king is one who exerts his authority over people and…” Claire nudged her chin his way and nodded once.
A gust of wind sent a lock of hair tumbling against his deeply furrowed brow. “What are you saying?” he demanded.
“Oh, you know, Caleb Gray.” She paused. “You know.”
With that, she retrieved her hefty sack once more and set to work lugging it toward the open fields below.
There came the crunch and crackle of snow. Caleb slid himself in her way, halting her trek.
“What now?” she asked on a huff.
He leaned down, shrinking a healthy bit of the space between them so she could clearly see the flare of his nostrils and the outrage glimmering in his dark eyes. “Are you suggesting I’m like one of your oppressive kings?”
“Ordering my coach driver to leave me?” she shot back. “Insisting I accompany you? Dictating the terms of my staying and going?” Her angry tirade left a little cloud of white as she spoke. “If the crown fits, King Caleb.” Claire made a show of adjusting an imaginary chaplet atop her head.
For one moment, she thought she might have gone too far. His eyes grew dark, incandescent with his rage, and his tall, broad frame shook, and she’d wager her very life that his tremble had not a thing to do with the cold.
Presented with that rage, she did all that she could to diffuse it.
Abandoning her provisions, Claire hastily assembled a snowball, and then straightening, she let it fly.
That damp missile hit him square in the nose, exploding and leaving his eyes and the angular planes of his face covered in white.
Caleb went absolutely motionless, and then ever so slowly, he wiped the remnants of her attack from his face. “Did you just—?”
Claire’s next snowball immediately found its mark, undoing all his efforts.
He growled and then charged forward.
With a squeal, Claire took off running as quick as she was able up a slight incline. Her skirts hampered her efforts and slowed her stride, but she pressed on.