Page 12 of The Laird who Craved her

"The lady in distress is the only reason yer council isnae going to riot tomorrow morning," Claire shot back, a spark of her usual wit returning to her tongue. She took two steps toward him, her chin held high. "This is a false betrothal. It is a charade, Laird MacRae, and nothing more. We play the part until the harvest is over. Me cousins are Leo and Violet MacSween. Once matters settle and the roads are clear, I will go to them. They will harbor me."

Finn suddenly looked genuinely startled. His arms uncoiled from his chest, his entire frame going perfectly still as he stared at her.

"MacSween?" he repeated slowly, the name rolling off his tongue like a heavy stone. "Ye are cousins to Leo MacSween? The Laird of the southern valleys?"

"Aye," Claire said, a small sense of triumph blooming in her chest at his reaction.

Finally, something that shakes his iron composure. Thank heavens for Leo's terrifying reputation.

"He is me first cousin on me mother's side. We spent our childhood summers together. If I send word to him that I am in need of shelter, he will bring a hundred swords to these borders to fetch me."

Finn let out a low, heavy breath through his nose, a muscle in his jaw flexing as he processed the information. He rubbed alarge hand across his brow, looking at her as if she had just transformed from a southern rose into a barrel of gunpowder.

"Is he yer enemy?" Claire asked carefully, watching him closely.

"Nae yet," Finn said dryly, his green eyes cutting back to her face. "But it is good to ken it, because if I pretend at betrothal to his cousin without his permission, he likely will become one. The man is notoriously protective of his bloodline."

Despite herself, Claire nearly smiled. The mental image of her fiercely protective cousin Leo storming Finn’s castle was almost comforting. "Then ye had best be very careful to ensure everyone believes this is a grand romance, Laird MacRae. For both our sakes."

"A grand romance," Finn muttered, a low scoff escaping him. "I daenae do romance, lass."

"Clearly," Claire said, running a critical eye over his mud-splattered boots and the dark hair dripping down his neck. "A bit more practice with yer manners wouldn't hurt, either. London gentlemen usually offer a lady a dry towel before they begin threatening her with social ruin."

"This isnae London," Finn said softly.

Then, he stepped closer.

Claire’s breath hitched as he closed the small distance between them in a single, fluid stride. She took an instinctive step backward, but her spine immediately met the rigid, freezing stone of the wall beside the window.

He didn't stop. He took another step, and another, until his body caged her fully against the cold stone.

The sheer, radiating heat coming from his frame stole her breath instantly. Claire’s hands pressed flat against the stone behind her, her fingers digging into the rough mortar as her heart began to race for an entirely different reason.

Finn raised his arms, his large, calloused hands bracing firmly against the stone on either side of her head. He was trapping her completely, pinning her within the circle of his embrace without a single inch of his skin truly touching hers. Yet, the proximity was so intense that she could feel the whisper of his wool plaid brushing against the silk of her damp bodice.

Her pulse stumbled, a wild flutter in her throat that made it impossible to swallow.

Oh, sweet heavens. He is too close. He is entirely too close. Why is me skin burning? I can feel the heat of his chest through me gown. I should push him away. I should hit him. Why can't me hands move?

Finn lowered his head slightly, tilting his sharp jaw until his face was only inches from hers. When he spoke, his voice wasa rough, velvety murmur that brushed warm and intoxicating against the sensitive skin of her ear.

"I have one condition too," he said quietly.

Claire forced herself to look up, her gray eyes locking onto his. Her breathing was shallow, her lips parting slightly as she tried to draw air into her tight lungs. "And... and what is that?"

Finn’s green eyes held hers mercilessly, dark with an intensity that seemed to pull the very air from her chest. The flecks of emerald in his gaze seemed to burn in the shadows.

"If a false betrothal is truly all ye want this to be…" he whispered, his eyes drifting down to her lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to her gaze, "daenae come to me later pretending I havenae offered ye a real marriage."

A sudden, heavy wave of heat curled low in Claire’s stomach, thick and sweet and entirely terrifying. It was a reckless, wicked sensation that defied every bit of her highborn training.

A real marriage? To him? To a man who rules with flint and steel? But God help me, the way his voice sounds right now makes me want to do something entirely foolish.

She swallowed hard, lifting her chin by a fraction of an inch to maintain her defiance, though her voice was barely more than a breath. "I willnae."

Finn’s gaze narrowed slightly, tracking the small, telltale pulse throbbing violently at the base of her neck. He recognized the reaction. He could see the way her gray eyes had widened, the way her chest was rising and falling in rapid, uneven breaths. A slow, dangerous satisfaction flickered deep in his green eyes. He knew exactly what he was doing to her, and he wasn't doing a single thing to ease the tension.

"Good," he continued, his voice roughening further as he leaned in just a fraction closer, his chest almost whispering against hers. "Three weeks. That is the bargain. Ye will play the role properly, Lady Claire. Ye will wear me colors, ye will stand at me side at every feast and council meeting, and ye will let every man in the Highlands believe ye belong to me completely."