“Caleb,” she whispered.
He stood so motionless before her that he might as well have been a frozen rendering she’d conjured of her deepest wants and yearning.
“Claire,” he murmured.
Her eyes slid shut. Imaginings didn’t speak in that deep, roughened baritone.
When she opened her eyes once more, the sight remained.
“You’re not in Paris.”
A smile danced at the hard corners of his lips, lending a warmth to a mouth previously frosted with coldness. “No. I… I found my muse again.”
Joy sent her heart soaring. “Oh, Caleb,” she whispered. “That is… wonderful.” And she spoke the truth, as she had wanted that so desperately for him.
He rocked on his heels. “You were right. She wasn’t missing after all.” Caleb locked his gaze with hers. “Turns out, I was running from something.” Clearing his throat, he glanced down, breaking that connection and bringing her eyes to the object in his hand, a parcel she’d failed to note before this. “I also had… things I had to see to here. I brought this.” He extended the linen-draped package toward her.
Returning her brush to a nearby vase, Claire smoothed her unsteady hands over the front of her stained apron and then reached for the item Caleb held out. Untying the string that held the wrap in place, she uncovered it.
She stilled…
A ship, ablaze in the middle of a turbulent sea. One could just make out the expressions of the tiny figures sketched upon that canvas. The silvery thrust of sabers as they connected with their marks and the crimson drops of blood were an eerie capture of whatever battle these men fought…
“It is gloomy and dark…”
Her words of that day whispered forward.
Now, her gaze remained locked on this rendering of Caleb’s. He’d captured those dark days he’d spoken of. Every part of her ached and hurt and bled for the agony he’d suffered.
“I believe your sister wanted that,” he murmured.
She released her grip on the canvas and immediately steadied herself.
“Yes,” she said softly, stroking a reverent finger along the edge of the framed painting, and then she stopped. Restless, Claire wandered to a nearby easel and set the image there to appreciate it in new ways, for the story contained within of this man she so desperately loved.
Caleb took up a spot beside her, staring at the painting with her. “It’s for her,” he clarified. “I want her to have it.”
Knocked off-balance, she searched for a reply. “Caleb, you cannot—”
“Part with it?” he finished for her. His broad shoulders came up in a deep shrug. “I can, and I am.”
He would do this, for Faye? And come all this way? “She will be most grate—” She slowly brought her gaze up to his. “You heard that?”
He wandered closer. “I heard everything you said when you came in, sweetheart.” His deep murmur was a caress that sent her belly fluttering. “Every single day that your stubborn self arrived, I waited. I listened. I couldn’t not. I couldn’t stay away from that damned museum, because I wondered if you’d finally relent, and you never did…” Caleb pulled at his crisp, perfectly folded, until now, cravat. “As for the painting…” He looked to the object in question, though his unseeing gaze hovered just above the top of the canvas. “It seemed wrong that someone who wanted it shouldn’t have it.”
“Caleb—”
“I want her to have it,” he repeated more insistently.
It was… a gift. And one he’d come all this way to give to Faye. “Thank you.” Claire drew in a ragged breath. Here she’d spent the past fortnight believing their time together at an end. Here she’d been trying to pick up the pieces of her heart and put them back together. “My sister will love this.”
And now Faye would have what Claire would not, a piece of Caleb, and Claire was left to realize her heart could never be whole again. Not once he left this time.
A tear wound its way down her cheek, and she angled her face to protect herself from his seeing.
Alas, she wasn’t to have any more secrets where this man was concerned.
Caleb brushed that drop away with a knuckle, saying nothing, however, and letting her to her pride. “I understand you are in the market for an art instructor.” His arm fell to his side, and she went cold at the loss of his touch. Cold was what she would be the moment he left. Again.
He’d…learned of the advertisement she’d taken out? “I was…” she murmured. “but I’m not anymore.”
He smiled. “Because you realized you don’t need to waste your time with some fancy instructor?”
It was that grin, that slight, tempting twist of his lips, that would lead even a saint to sin, and Claire had never been a saint where Caleb Gray was concerned. “Because I found an instructor,” she clarified, heading over to the art table. To give herself purpose, she proceeded to grind up grain and mix it with linseed.
Caleb joined her at the other side of the table. “You’ve found someone…”
It wasn’t a question, but Claire nodded. “Yes.”
“Who?”
“Frances De Witt.” She continued hammering. “Do you know of him?”
“Romantic realist,” he answered. “Yeah. I know him. I know every artist.”
She smiled at his confidence. Anyone else—herself once among those ranks—would have taken that for arrogance. Caleb, however, was a man who knew his craft and made no apologies for it, and that was what had attracted her from the beginning. “And?”
“And? He’s fine enough. A good artist,” Caleb said gruffly. From under her lashes, she caught his restlessness as he rocked on his heels. “He’s not going to have you paint florals.”
And then, something slid in, something she’d not considered. “How did you…?”
“Find out you were looking?” Reaching inside his jacket, he removed a folded sheet of velum with words in her sister-in-law’s hand. “Poppy sent word. She let me know.”
“Oh.” A curl fell across her brow, obscuring her vision, and she tucked it behind her ear. “Is that why you came?” she asked, striving for a flippancy she didn’t feel. “To apply for the post?”
“No.” His rejection came as quickly as it always had, managing to cut even more this time. Caleb returned the note to his pocket. “Claire Poplar, I haven’t known how to make out up from down since the moment you entered my life,” His throat worked, the muscles of his face tensed, and she stretched trembling fingers out. Caleb caught them, bringing each to his mouth, laying a tender kiss upon each. He looked up at her with an intensity in his eyes that sucked the breath from her lungs.
“I didn’t come to be your teacher.” He paused. “I came to ask if you’d be my wife.”
“What?” she whispered, her ears humming. Nothing made sense. Logic was all confused by his being here and by the words he’d spoken. “I don’t…”
“I didn’t want to fall in love, Claire,” he said hoarsely. “I didn’t even think I was capable of being happy.” He ran a gaze over her face, like the softest of caresses. “I was afraid to feel and live… until you, Claire. And then when you left…” His face twisted with agony.