Page 19 of The Laird who Craved her

"Claire? What is it, lamb?" Molly asked, her smile fading into immediate worry as she walked over to her.

"Molly, it’s a mess," Claire whispered, her voice cracking as she stared at the glowing embers of the hearth. "It’s an absolute disaster. How will I tell me father? If he hears I am betrothed to a MacRae, he will have me hunted down by the king’s guard. And Leo... God, Leo."

She thought of her fiercely protective cousin, the Laird of the MacSweens.

How will I tell Leo that I’ve used his name to build a lie with a man he barely trusts? When Leo finds out about this false betrothal, he will burn the western passes to get to me.

She walked over to the window, pushing the wooden shutter open by an inch to let the freezing night air hit her face. The castle below was quiet now, the fires dying, but in the courtyard, she could see a lone, massive silhouette standing near the outer gatehouse, his dark cloak whipping in the wind.

Finn.

Claire gripped the stone sill, her knuckles aching as a sudden, terrifying realization hit her deep in her chest. The danger wasn't just outside the walls anymore. The true danger was the way her own body reacted every time his green eyes found hers in the dark.

I am trapped, she thought, her breath fogging the glass as she watched his silhouette vanish into the shadows.

And the worst part is... I daenae know if I want to escape.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Finn stood at the threshold of the great hall, his jaw tightly set as he waited for the woman who was currently upending his entire life.

He had ordered the heavy iron bar on her bedchamber door for her own damn safety. With a wounded Westerly raider still unaccounted for in the high passes, Finn was not about to take chances. Yet, when he had opened the door to fetch her for supper, the Duke’s daughter had marched straight into his chest like a furious bantam hen, demanding to know if he kept all his betrotheds locked away like prize hounds.

She had been wearing nothing but a thin, white linen shift.

Finn closed his eyes for a brief second, his fingers tightening over the stone doorframe as the memory hit his gut. The shifting firelight in her chamber had rendered that scrap of linen practically translucent. He caught a glimpse of the soft, curving silhouette of her hips, the slender length of her bare legs, and therapid, frightened rise and fall of her chest. It took every ounce of his restraint not to let his gaze drop, not to let himself appreciate the sheer, breathtaking beauty of the woman who had dropped into his lap.

MacSween's cousin, he reminded himself brutally, his pulse still hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

Keep yer eyes up, MacRae. If ye touch her, Leo MacSween willnae just demand an explanation; he’ll bring down the entire southern vanguard to peel the skin from yer bones.

"Are ye going to stand there brooding until the frost sets in, Laird MacRae, or are we going inside?"

Claire’s sharp, mocking whisper snapped him back to the present. Finn opened his eyes, looking down at her. Janet had managed to find her a dry gown of deep crimson wool. It fit her far better than the borrowed kirtle from before. Her hair was partially pinned up, but several stubborn curls had escaped, framing her flushed face.

"I am waiting for ye to remember yer manners, lass," Finn said, offering his forearm. "And to remind ye that when we step through these doors, ye are supposed to look like a woman who is madly in love with me.”

Claire placed her hand onto his forearm. Even through his doublet, the spark of her touch seared right through to his skin.

"Oh, I can assure ye, Laird MacRae," she said, giving him a feigned smile that made his stomach do a flip, "I have an excellent memory for every slight, and a Duke's daughter has more patient ways of ruining a man than a dirk ever could."

"A terrifying prospect," Finn muttered, though his mouth twitched up.

He led her into the great hall, and the sheer volume of the space washed over them. The hall glowed golden beneath the light of tallow candles. The air was thick with the rich scent of roasting mutton, spiced ale, and baked bread.

Children ran between the long tables, their laughter echoing off the rafters. A group of elderly clansmen argued loudly over a game of cards, slamming their ale down onto the oak table with theatrical fury.

As Finn walked through the room, his people greeted him naturally.

“Me Laird!” t hey echoed.

There were no terrified bows here, no forced pleasantries. Men raised their horns of ale with wide grins, and older women threw lighthearted jests about his permanent scowl.

A little girl no older than five came sprinting around the edge of a table, chasing a loose wooden hoop. She was on a direct collision course to slam into Finn's armored legs.

Out of the corner of his eye, Finn saw Claire stiffen, her hand tightening over his forearm as if she instinctively wanted to leap between them to protect the child from his fury.

Does she truly think me a monster?h e thought, a brief flash of irritation crossing his mind.