Page 18 of The Laird who Craved her

Finn stared at her lips, his thumb twitching against her wrist, before he slowly let his fingers uncoil. He stepped back, his expression reverting to a cold, unreadable mask. "Get yer shoes on. We daenae keep the council waiting."

The atmosphere in the great hall had completely shifted. The children and hounds had been cleared away, and the long timber tables were now lined with the senior men of the clan.

Finn marched down the center of the hall, his hand resting heavily on the hilt of his broadsword. Claire walked half a step behind him, her hands folded neatly in front of her green gown.

"So," Old Morris croaked, leaning his elbows on the high table. He was a withered man with a beard that reached his belt and eyes like yellowed flint. "This is the southern bird who claims to be a MacRae."

"She doesnae claim it, Morris," Finn said as he took his seat at the center of the table, pulling Claire down into the heavy carved chair beside him. "She is mine. The arrangement was made in secret to protect her from her father’s enemies."

"A Duke's daughter," another councilman, a heavy-set man named Torquil, muttered suspiciously. "An English Duke. What does Clan MacRae gain from an alliance with a man who bows to the southern king?"

"Ye gain me mother’s dowry," Claire spoke up, her clear, refined voice cutting through the rumbling murmurs of the men.

Finn’s head snapped toward her, his green eyes flashing with an immediate warning, but Claire defied him entirely. She leaned forward, resting her hands on the table, facing the old men without a hint of fear.

"Three thousand pieces of gold, secured in the Edinburgh bank, and four hundred prime acres along the southern border," Claire lied smoothly, inventing figures with the confidence of a seasoned gambler. "Me mother was a MacSween, gentlemen. The blood in me veins is as old as these hills. If ye think me father’s title is a burden, I assure ye the gold will make it much lighter to bear."

A stunned silence fell over the table.

Old Morris blinked, his bushy white eyebrows rising toward his hairline. He looked at Torquil, then back at Claire, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. "Three... three thousand?"

"And the border acres," Claire added with a sweet, devastating smile.

Douglas, who was sitting further down the table, had to quickly cover his mouth with a giant horn of ale to hide his sudden, hysterical sputtering. Janet, standing near the kitchen hearth, simply folded her arms and let out a triumphant cackle.

"Well," Old Morris cleared his throat, his yellow eyes suddenly gleaming with a very different kind of intensity. "An alliance with the MacSweens is... substantial. And the gold would certainly repair the outer perimeter walls before the winter frost. But a betrothal is nothing without security, Laird MacRae."

The old man leaned closer, his gaze moving between Finn and Claire. "The neighboring clans are already whispering about theattack on the low road. They think we are weak. We need a public wedding. Before the end of the harvest in three weeks."

Claire felt the air leave her lungs.Three weeks? No, no, that was supposed to be the end of the false betrothal!

"And an heir," Torquil chimed in, nodding his heavy head. "The MacRaes need stability, Finn. We need to know there will be a lad to hold the sword when ye are gone. We want a wedding date set before the next full moon."

Finn’s hand found Claire’s under the table.

His fingers wrapped around hers, squeezing tight. It wasn't a romantic gesture; it was an anchor. He leaned forward, his massive shoulders blocking her from the council’s predatory glares. "The wedding will happen when I decide it happens, Morris. Not a day before. Lady Claire has just survived an ambush by Westerly’s dogs. She willnae be paraded through the glen like a prize horse until she has rested."

"We only speak of the clan's survival, me Laird," Morris insisted, his voice hardening. "The harvest feast is in three weeks. If she doesnae wear the MacRae colors as yer wedded wife by then, the neighboring clans will strike."

Claire looked at the faces of the old men, then up at Finn’s rigid profiles. The trap was closing around them faster than either of them had anticipated.

"This session is done," Finn barked, rising from his chair and pulling Claire up with him. He led her away, his hand still locked around hers as they made their way to the supper tables.

Finn sat beside her like a giant stone sentinel, his green eyes scanning every entrance. To the rest of the hall, it looked like the deep, protective devotion of a man madly in love with his new bride. But to Claire, it felt like a heavy chain.

"To the future Lady MacRae!" a young warrior at the lower table shouted, raising his horn high.

"To the Lady Claire!" thirty voices roared back, the sound echoing off the stone walls. She forced herself to smile, to nod, to play the agreeable Duke's daughter, but beneath the table, her fingernails were digging deep into her palms.

By the time she escaped to her chambers, she felt like screaming.

The room was quiet, the fire burning low and casting warm, flickering light across the room. Molly was standing near the large wardrobe, smoothing down the fresh linens that had been given to them by the castle housekeeper.

"Oh, Claire, they are so kind here," Molly said, turning around with a bright, relieved smile. "The housekeeper gave us these extra wool blankets, and she said we could have fresh milk from the dairy every morning. It’s nae like London at all. The people actually look ye in the eye when they speak to ye."

Claire didn't answer. She tore off her green wool kirtle, throwing it onto the floorboards with a frustrated cry, and began pacing the room in her thin linen shift.

Where did I get meself into?She pressed her cold hands to her burning cheeks, her thoughts spiraling into pure panic.The council wants a wedding in three weeks. They want an heir. They want me to bind me life to the Devil of the North.