Page 21 of The Laird who Craved her

As they danced, the physical reactions between them grew too intense to ignore. Every time her waist shifted against his palm, he felt a heavy, primal ache settling deep in his belly. She was so small compared to him, her head barely reaching his chest, yet she carried a fierce, electric energy that seemed to light up the entire hall.

He could see the beautiful flush spreading across her cheeks, the sweat glistening faintly at her temples. Her breath was coming in short, ragged puffs, her chest rising and falling violently against his. Every few steps, the wild spin of the dance brought her thighs brushing against his, the heavy wool of their garments doing nothing to hide the hard press of their bodies.

Claire looked up at him, only at him. Her fingers tightened over his knuckles, and she felt no fear. Her eyes held a spark thatdared him to close the distance, and Finn understood. She was challenging him.

The music reached a frantic crescendo, the fiddle drawing out a final, triumphant note before the bagpipes stopped with a long sigh.

The hall erupted into thunderous cheers and clapping, the warriors stamping their boots against the stone floor.

Finn stopped, but his hand did not leave her waist. He stood in the center of the floor, his chest rising and falling in heavy gasps. He kept her pinned against him, the heat radiating between their bodies. Claire’s hands remained on his chest, her fingers trembling as she tried to draw air into her lungs.

"Ye... ye led me well, Laird MacRae," she whispered breathlessly.

Finn’s thumb traced a slow line over her hip. He saw the way her pupils widened at the touch, heard the hitched breath that left her lips. "Aye," Finn murmured, his voice raw. "But the dance isnae over yet, Lady Claire."

Before she could ask what he meant, a heavy, metallicclankechoed from the high table.

Old Morris rose from his bench, his eyes gleaming with a calculating light as he raised his goblet. The hall fell silent, the cheers dying away as the councilman leveled a dangerous grin at the couple in the center of the floor.

"A fine display, Laird!” Morris croaked. "It is clear to every man in this hall that the love between ye is fierce. The council has reconsidered our timeline. We willnae wait for the harvest feast to secure this alliance."

Finn felt Claire go rigid in his arms.

Morris’s grin widened. "The priest arrives from the southern glen in two days, me Laird. The wedding will happen then, ensuring the MacSween gold is ours. Giving the clan the heir we need before our enemies strike."

CHAPTER NINE

Claire sat alone at the small desk in her bedchamber, as she dipped her quill into the dark ink. She didn't want to think about the dizzying warmth that had pooled in her belly during the dance last night, nor the heavy, electric jolt of Finn’s palm on her waist.

With a sharp exhale, she began:

Dearest Leo,

I pray this letter reaches ye swiftly and in total secrecy. A terrible storm drove me carriage into a ditch, and we were set upon by raiders in the low pass. But ye must nae panic, nor must ye march yer vanguard south. I am safe and undamaged. I was extracted from the glen by Laird Finn MacRae.

He hit the raiders and brought me behind the walls of Rosewood Castle. However, to protect us both from political ruin and the immediate scandal, we have entered into a falsearrangement. We have told his council that we are betrothed. It is a ruse, Leo. A temporary shield to buy us time.

The MacRae Laird is an overbearing, arrogant barbarian, but he carries a fierce duty to his people.Daenae launch an assault. I shall soon find me way to ye.

Claire blew softly on the wet ink and folded the parchment. She held the stick of crimson wax over the small flame of the candle and watched as it fell on the seam of her letter. She slipped her mother’s ring from her finger and pressed the MacSween crest firmly into the wax.

"Fascinating."

Claire leaped out of her chair, her hand flying to her throat as the quill rattled against the wood.

She hadn't heard the door open. But there he was, towering over her desk. Finn stood entirely too close, blocking out the light from the window. He was wearing a dark leather doublet, his black hair wild and wind-blown.

His emerald eyes were fixed on the letter in her hand, unblinking and dangerous.

"In London, Laird MacRae, we use the door knocker!" Claire hissed, her gray eyes flashing with fright and fury. "Or do ye make it a habit to creep into a lady's private quarters like a thief in the night?"

"In the Highlands, Lady Claire, me guests daenae usually smuggle secret correspondence to rival clans behind me back," Finn rumbled.

"It isnae secret!" Claire shot back, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. She refused to take a step back, even though the raw, masculine scent of pine woodsmoke and leather on him was making her head spin. "It is a letter to me cousin, Leo MacSween.”

"Give it to me," Finn commanded, extending a calloused hand.

"Nay!" Claire pressed her back against the edge of the desk, her fingers tightening over the letter. "Ye have nay right to read me private thoughts, ye overbearing brute."