Page 23 of The Laird who Craved her

Finn’s reaction was primal. Before his brain could process the command, his hand slammed down onto the oak table, the silver horn rattling violently against the wood.

"Nay."

The single syllable cracked through the air.

Keith’s grin vanished instantly, his face turning an ash-gray color as he staggered back a half-step. He looked at Finn, whose emerald eyes were currently burning with a homicidal light, then looked at the stone floor as if praying it would swallow him whole. "Me L-Laird... I only meant…"

"Go drink yer ale, Keith," Finn growled, his voice dangerously low, his muscles locked tight beneath his leather doublet.

"Aye, me Laird. Immediately, me Laird," the poor clansman muttered, turning on his heel and practically fleeing toward the safety of the outer kitchens as if a pack of wolves was at his heels.

Claire stood frozen, her jaw dropping slightly in utter disbelief before her gray eyes narrowed into twin slits of pure silver fire. She lifted one dark, elegant brow slowly, her posture turning rigid as she leaned slightly over the table toward him.

"I wasnae aware I required permission, Laird MacRae," she whispered to him.

Finn rose from his heavy carved chair, his massive frame instantly towering over her, casting her completely in his shadow. His chest rose and fell in heavy, ragged breaths as he stared down into her defiant face. The tension between them was so thick, so violently hot, that the roaring noise of the hall seemed to vanish.

"Outside," he said quietly, his voice a raw command.

Claire looked at his broad chest, then at the heavy oak doors leading to the western battlements. She could refuse. She could turn her back on him, return to Janet, and laugh the insult off. Instead, her heart kicked against her ribs like a caged bird, a reckless, wild curiosity overriding every ounce of her sense.

"Lead the way then," she whispered.

Finn turned and strode toward the side exit, his dark cloak billowing behind him, and Claire followed half a step behind, her crimson boots clicking rapidly against the stone.

The moment they stepped through the timber door, the freezing Highland wind greeted them. The stifling heat of the feast was replaced by the black chill of the night. They stood on a narrow balcony over jagged cliffs, with Atlantic waves crashing below, sending salty spray into the mingling wind.

Claire instantly folded her arms tightly over the green and navy tartan, her body shivering violently from the sudden drop in temperature, though she refused to let her chin drop.

"Ye embarrassed me," she said quietly, turning to face him at last. "I ken it's only a ruse to ye, Finn, but I am still a person standing in that hall. Keith meant nothing by it."

Finn dragged a rough, calloused hand through his wind-blown black hair, his pacing stopping abruptly as he turned on her. "Every man in that hall was looking at ye, Claire! Every single one of them!"

"And why should ye care?" Claire shot back, taking a step toward him, her skirts whipping wildly around her legs. "Why act like some jealous, wounded husband? This is a ruse, Finn! We agreed to appearances! I am supposed to show everyone I belong to ye for the sake of the clan's safety, nothing more!"

"Appearances?" Finn let out a harsh, mocking laugh that was devoid of mirth. He closed the distance between them in two massive, predatory strides, his body caging hers completely against the freezing stone wall of the tower.

Claire’s breath hitched, her back against the cold granite as she looked up. He was so close she could feel the heat from his chest through the Highland chill, his shadow blocking the moonlight. Before she could move, Finn slammed one hand flat against the stone beside her head and his other hand near her waist. He didn't touch her yet, but the proximity was torture.

"Ye think this is just a game of appearances, lass?" Finn murmured, his head tilting down, his rough voice dropping into a low, gravelly vibration that sent a violent, wicked tremor straight down Claire’s spine. His emerald eyes were dark, dilated, and fixed on her trembling lips.

"Finn..." Claire tried to speak, but her throat was completely dry, her pulse racing so wildly she could hear it drumming in her ears over the sound of the crashing waves below. Her skin burned where his breath brushed against her cheek.

"I daenae belong to ye," she whispered, her voice cracking as she tried to find her British steel. "I am nae yours to command."

"If ye dare to try that again," Finn growled softly, ignoring her protest as he leaned closer, his chest nearly brushing the soft wool over her breasts. "If I see another man’s hand near yer waist, Claire, I willnae just stop the dance. Do ye understand me?"

"Ye are mad," she gasped, her hands coming up to rest flat against his leather doublet. She meant to push him away, but her fingers instinctively curled into the heavy material instead, pulling him a fraction of an inch closer. Her whole body was aching, a heavy, sweet longing pooling low in her belly until her knees felt weak. "Ye have no right..."

"Ye wear MacRae colors," Finn murmured, his gaze dropping to the green tartan wrapped across her chest, his jaw flexing violently. "Ye stand in me hall. Ye carry me name before thesepeople. Every breath ye take in this valley belongs to me until this ruse is done."

"Finn, please..." Claire whispered, her gray eyes dark with a desperate, heavy tension. She didn't know if she was begging him to stop or begging him to finally kill the agonizing space between them.

The roughness in his voice deepened into something feral. "Tell me to get away from ye, Claire. Tell me to go back inside, and I swear to ye on me honor, I’ll walk away."

Claire stared up into his emerald eyes, her lips parting as a ragged, hot breath escaped her. She looked at his mouth, her own body answering for her as she tilted her chin up a fraction of an inch, her gray fire melting into pure submission.

"I cannae," she breathed.