Let Me Be Your Hero (4 page)

Unable to move, she felt like one awakened from an opium dream, disoriented and unable to make a choice. As if he understood, Fraser captured her by the wrist and pulled her away, and after he drew the cloth over Breac’s body, he walked her from the room.

“I am dying inside, Fraser, where ye canna see. I bleed from a thousand wounds inside me. Can ye no see what I feel? Will it always be on the inside? I want this pain gone from me, and yet it stays. How can I let it oot?”

“There is no fast and simple way to healing. We all take different roads, but the distance we must travel is the same. Ye have no choice. Ye must make the journey, but ye will not have to go it alone. I am with ye, Claire, for as long as ye have need o’ me, I am with ye.”

I should like to know who has been carried off, except poor dear me—I have been more ravished myself than anybody since the Trojan War.

Lord Byron (1788-1824), English poet. Letter, October 29, 1819, answering accusations of debauchery (published in
Byron’s Letters and Journals,
vol. 6, ed. by Leslie A. Marchand, 1976)

L
ord Monleigh and his brothers remained on Inchmurrin Island during the terrible days that followed. By the second week after the funeral, Claire, her brother and her sisters realized they had accepted them as part of the family.

Out of their tragedy, Kendrew, the youngest and only surviving male of the Lennox family, became the Earl of Errick and Mains. Claire was concerned for him, for Kendrew was only twelve, and too young to bear the weight of such a title.

She was grateful to have the Grahams there. It was especially good for Kendrew to have Lord Monleigh
there to encourage him. He spent hours with Kendrew, teaching him the clansmen he could entrust various jobs to, as well as those to keep at a distance. He told him to rely on Claire’s judgment and the experience of Dermot, whom his father trusted with his most prized possession, his children.

Day by day, Claire saw Kendrew’s confidence return, albeit by slow degrees. Her sisters, too, although saddened and given to moments of tears and despair, were also able to laugh when they all gathered in the evening and spoke of their fondest remembrances, but Claire was not doing as well. Attentively, she listened to the tales of love and humor related by her siblings, and those contributed by the Grahams. Upon occasion, she could relate a special moment of her own.

The similarity ended there for, unlike the others, Claire did not laugh, nor could she cry. She still carried her grief inside, and in spite of Fraser’s encouraging her to cry and let the pain out, she could not.

Earlier that morning, Jamie left for Edinburgh, where he would meet with his lawyer to start the necessary proceedings to seek the guardianship of Lord Errick’s children. Niall rode with Jamie in the boat across the lake, but instead of accompanying him to Edinburgh, he rode to Grahamstone Castle, to attend to things there until Jamie returned.

Fraser remained at Inchmurrin, temporarily assuming the role of Lord Errick, daily carrying out the tasks and chores as Alasdair would have done, with Kendrew tucked beneath his wing.

“What do ye think it means to be an earl?” Kendrew asked, when they were taking a break from going over papers in the library.

Fraser stopped and looked across the loch, where Ben Lomond stood with his humped shoulders, solitary and alone. “Take a look at Ben Lomond,” he said. “When ye are young, ye are crowded together in a range of mountains, but when ye become an earl, ye are like old Ben Lomond, standing all by himself, solitary and alone.”

Fraser could see the concern in the grave expression on the boy’s young face. He ruffled Kendrew’s rosy hair. “’Tis a chore and a duty to be an earl, ’tis true. I am not worried that ye canna handle it, however.”

Kendrew stopped to pick up a few pebbles along the shore, where the gentle waves of the loch seemed in no hurry to reach their destination. He pitched several in the water. “Lord Monleigh said I shall learn responsibility, and it was something as big as the word.”

“Aye, he was right. I remember the first thing my father said to me on the subject. ‘Fraser, he said—’and here Fraser did his best to imitate the stern, gruff voice of his father ‘—ye must remember ye are responsible for decisions ye make in regards to situations ye are not responsible for.’”

Kendrew kicked a rock and pointed to a red shank that flew overhead, the identifying white edge to the wings easy to see in the sunlight.

“Noisy birds,” Fraser said, and enjoyed Kendrew’s responsive laugh. Kendrew was a gentle-hearted lad, and one he hated to see burdened with the duty of his inheritance. “Do ye understand the difference between duty and responsibility?”

“Duty is the task and responsibility is taking the
blame if ye do yer duty wrong, or the praise if ye do it well. I hope I always do it well,” he said, “for I dinna like to be wrong.”

“’Tis a paradox, for no one likes to be wrong, and no one can be right all the time. Each thing ye do, every choice ye make, will be like a shadow that follows ye throughout yer life.”

“I dinna understand what ye mean.”

Fraser studied the freckles on Kendrew’s Celtic nose. “Weel, Lord Errick, I have given ye a bite of the ‘food for thought,’ but it is up to ye to swallow it, or spit it oot.”

Kendrew was quiet for a while, and Fraser asked him if he was troubled about anything.

“When I was little, it didna matter if I was wrong. Now that I am the earl, I am told I must expect that sometimes I will be wrong. I want to be a man like my father. I want to be strong. I dinna want to be wrong. Not ever.”

“Weel, ye must realize that being right or wrong is not a judgment of yer manhood. Ye will be wrong, for no man can be right all the time, ye ken, but when ye are a man, ye realize ye will be wrong on occasion, and it willna crush yer spirit to accept that. In the end ye can only perform yer duty to the best o’ yer ability, and then ye must have the wit to leave the rest to God.”

When they arrived back at the castle, Fraser sent Kendrew off with Dermot to enjoy being a twelve-year-old boy who enjoyed fishing with a longtime friend.

Once he was gone, Fraser turned his thoughts to Claire. There was no doubt in his mind; he was in love
with her. The frustrating part of it was, he knew this was not the time to pay her court, when her heart was broken with grief and her emotions nowhere near normal. As a friend, he did not want to take advantage of her time of sorrow. As a man, he wanted her in all the ways a man wants a woman, and it was becoming damnably difficult for him to keep his hands off of her.

He loved her. He desired her, and thought of little other than making love to her. He wanted to do the honorable thing and ask her to marry him, but she would need, and be expected by her clan, to observe her year of mourning.

Could he wait a year to bed her?

Not if she did not help him to keep his distance, for God help him, when it came to Claire, his constitution was weak. He hoped the occasion never presented itself, for he did not know if he would be able to resist her if he ever found her willing.

He could only pray that God would not let such a temptation present itself, yet when he did just that, he dreamed later that God had answered his request with the same words he had spoken to Kendrew. “Ye must remember ye are responsible for decisions ye make in regards to situations ye are not responsible for.”

It must have been the week for dreams, for two nights later Claire dreamed her father spoke to her, as he did that day in the great hall, when it seemed so real to hear him say, “Be strong, Claire….”

The dream was disturbing and it awakened her. She did not understand why it upset her, or why it made her cry. Whatever it was, once she started, she could not seem to stop. Distraught, and in need of someone to
offer her the sort of comfort and understanding she had given to her siblings, she left her room and went to find Fraser.

The castle was dark, and she decided Fraser had already retired to his room, when she noticed a sliver of light coming from under the library door. She opened it and saw him sitting in her father’s leather chair, drinking a glass of brandy.

He was obviously surprised to see her. “Claire, what are ye doing here at this time o’ night, in yer sleeping gown?”

Claire looked down. He was right. It was her sleeping gown, and she did not much care one way or the other who saw her in it. She was hurting inside, and that seemed to be all she could handle at the present time.

She crossed the room, the tears still falling down her face, and stopped in front of him.

“Claire, this is not a good idea. Ye canna come in here dressed as ye are and expect me to pretend ye are dressed for kirk. Go back to yer room.”

“I canna. I had a dream aboot my father. I feel like everything inside me is broken. Can ye no see I dinna want to be alone? I want to be with ye, Fraser. I canna go back.” She put her hands over her face as the tears came in a gushing torrent, and sobs racked her body. She could not help it, and nothing she tried had any effect as far as stopping it. If anything, she only cried more.

“Hell and brimstone,” he said, and she felt his arms, warm and steady and reassuring as they pulled her toward him, and the next thing she knew, she was sitting on his lap with her arms around his neck, and doing her best to soak his entire shirtfront.

At least that is what he said, and when she sobbed out that she was “S-s-sorry,” he said, “Dinna fret so, Claire. It will dry as soon ye do.”

That only made her cry harder.

With his chin resting on her head, he rubbed her back, making big, lazy circles while she cried until there was not a surplus drop of water left in her body. That was when the hiccups came.

She felt the way Fraser’s body shook when he laughed softly, and planted a kiss on top of her head. She tightened her arms around his neck and said, “I love ye, Fraser Graham.”

He stood, with her still in his arms. It was not the declaration of love she hoped for, but then, it was no negative response to her statement, either.

He started across the room and she asked, “Where are we going?”

“We are going to take ye up to yer room and put ye in yer bed, and then I am going to my room and try the impossible…to go to sleep after what ye have put me through.”

“Will ye stay wi’ me, Fraser?”

“No.”

“I want to be with ye. It matters naught if ye are in my room, or if I go to yer room…as long as ye are with me.”

“Claire, ye dinna ken what ye are asking.”

“Aye, I ken verra weel what I am asking, Fraser. I am asking ye to stay with me tonight. I dinna want to be alone. I want to lie beside ye, Fraser, because I find comfort when I am near ye.”

“Ye canna ask that of me. If I stayed with ye, Claire, yer reputation would be destroyed, and no man of the
caliber ye deserve would be interested in asking for yer hand, no matter how wealthy ye were.”

“I care naught for what anyone thinks.”

“Ye may not care now, but ye will care tomorrow, or the next day, or the next.”

She did not say anything more. She nestled her face against his neck while he carried her from the library and up the stairs to her room. She did not say anything when her put her in the bed and drew the covers over her, or when he kissed her forehead in a fatherly manner and left the room quietly.

She was feeling the sting of his rejection, and she tried to go to sleep, but she kept seeing her father and her brothers lying on the table in the great hall, and once, when she dozed off, she dreamed Breac’s head was lost and separated from his body, and it came to her and pleaded for her help.

She awoke crying. After what seemed a long, long time, and no relief came, she left her bed and went to Fraser’s room.

She stopped outside the door and listened, but no sound came from inside. She put her hand on the doorknob and began to turn it slowly. When she heard it click, she pushed the door open—barely wide enough for her to slip through. Once inside, she closed the door and crossed the room in her bare feet. When she reached the side of the bed opposite the side where Fraser slept, she drew back the covers and climbed quietly into the bed.

His breathing was deep and even, and she knew he was asleep. She closed her eyes and lay as still as a mouse, waiting for sleep to come.

It did not.

She scooted closer to Fraser and froze when her hand touched his bare back. Her fingers inched lower…and then lower…and still she touched nothing but warm, smooth skin. She swallowed—a sound that seemed terribly loud to her own ears, but Fraser stirred not.

Her mouth was dry. Her heart pounded as if it were about to fly right out of her chest. Her curiosity got the better of her, and soon her fingers were on the move again. They inched downward until she knew the firmly rounded skin she touched was his buttocks, and then her eyes grew enormous with the reality of her discovery.

Fraser Graham did not wear a stitch when he slept.

She pulled her hand back and closed her eyes again, but it was not sleep that came to her, but thoughts…thoughts about the way his skin felt under her hand…thoughts about the power she sensed when she touched the firm mounds of his buttocks…thoughts about why he slept with nary a thread touching his body.

Why would he do such a thing?

Mayhap he liked it, she thought. Mayhap it felt good to sleep without nothing on. Mayhap
she
should try it.

She slowly inched her sleeping gown upward, then lifted her buttocks and pulled it up to her shoulders, which was the point when removing it became a wee bit more complicated.

At last, she finally had the gown off and she dropped it to the floor next to her. She stretched, feeling the smooth sheets against her naked flesh. It felt strange, but nice. She turned on her side, with her
back facing Fraser’s back. She closed her eyes and at some point she drifted off to sleep.

Some time later, when Fraser turned over, he touched something. He froze and lay perfectly still. He touched it again. He did not need to touch it a third time to know what he had in his hand was a breast.

A naked breast, at that.

His hand dropped lower…and lower…and lower still…

Damn ye, Claire, he thought. She was not wearing anything, and mighty good it felt, too.

At that point, Claire awakened and turned toward him.

Fraser groaned.

Claire’s eyes opened. “Dinna say it,” she said. “I ken ye are going to be angry with me.”

“What in the name of the patron saint of yer choice are ye doing in my bed with yer clothes off?”

“I wanted to be with ye, and when I discovered ye had nothing on, I wanted to be like ye. I wanted to see what it felt like.”

“Put your gown on and go back to
your
room and
your
own bed.”