Page 26 of The Laird who Craved her

He could never get used to it. Because getting used to it meant accepting it, and accepting it meant letting her become a permanent fixture in his life. He knew the danger of that.

"I daenae intend to get used to anything," Finn said aloud, his voice dropping into a flat tone. He walked toward the door, retrieving his dark cloak from the heavy wooden hook. "I intend to secure our borders and send the lady safely back to her cousin."

Douglas watched him, the amusement fading from his face, replaced by a deep, quiet respect. He clapped a heavy, calloused hand against Finn’s broad shoulder, the gesture speaking of years of shared bloodshed and unwavering loyalty.

"Ye’d make a fine husband, me Laird," Douglas said quietly, his tone sincere now. "Ye already carry this clan on yer back. Ye feed them, ye protect them, ye bleed for them. The rest comes naturally."

Finn stared at the closed oak door, Douglas’s hand feeling incredibly heavy on his shoulder.

If only Douglas knew exactly how naturally certain thoughts about Claire havebegun arriving, Finn thought, a grim, self-deprecating shadow crossing his mind.

"Let us go downstairs, Douglas," Finn commanded softly, stepping away from the older man's grip. "The men are waiting."

When Finn entered the great hall, the atmosphere was thick with the remnants of the evening's gathering. The fires had burned down to glowing red embers, and the energetic music had ceased. The younger warriors were gathered near the lower tables, finishing the last of their ale in a low, rumbling hum of conversation.

Finn walked toward the center of the hall, his presence immediately commanding the attention of the room. The murmuring tapered off into absolute silence as the Laird took his place.

He raised his hand slightly, and every man in the room straightened.

"The night is done," Finn's deep voice boomed across the stone walls, carrying effortlessly to every corner of the room without him needing to shout. "The watches are set at the outer gates. Get to yer beds. We have stone to move at the eastern perimeter at first light."

"Aye, Laird MacRae!" the men chorused as one, setting their horns down and moving toward the barracks with practiced discipline.

Finn watched them disperse. As he stood near the high table, his gaze drifted upward toward the gallery that led to the guest chambers.

She was up there. In his stronghold. He knew she was likely bathing by now, the hot water washing away the freezing chill of the balcony, leaving her skin flushed and soft. The image flashed through his mind with agonizing clarity.

"Laird MacRae."

Finn snapped his attention away from the gallery. Old Morris had hobbled over from his seat, leaning heavily on a thick wooden cane. The councilman’s yellowed eyes were sharp, glinting with a stubborn, calculating light.

"What is it, Morris?" Finn asked coldly.

"Torquil and I have been discussing the arrangements," Morris croaked, a sly grin stretching across his wrinkled face. "Since the priest arrives the day after tomorrow, we must ensure the southern glens are notified. We wouldn't want yer bride’s family to think we wed her in secret like thieves. I have taken the liberty of drafting the messengers…"

Finn’s blood turned cold.

He closed the distance between them in a single stride, towering over the elderly councilman.

"Ye will notify nay one," Finn commanded, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper that resonated with the unyielding power of the Devil of the North. The few remaining clansmen in the hall froze, sensing the volatile shift in the air.

Morris’s grin faltered, though he tried to hold his ground. "But me Laird, the alliance…"

"I gave ye me word that the wedding would happen," Finn interrupted, his green eyes burning with a fierce, uncompromising fire. "Daenae push me, Morris. Ye have yer timeline. I will handle me bride. If I find out ye have sent riders behind me back, or if ye overstep me authority in this hall again, ye will answer to me sword, nae the council. Do ye understand?"

Morris swallowed hard, his wrinkled throat bobbing. The fear in his eyes was genuine. He realized, perhaps for the first time, that the iron restraint of his Laird was fraying, and what lay beneath was lethal.

"Aye, Laird MacRae," Morris whispered, bowing his white head quickly. "As ye command."

"Good." Finn stepped back, adjusting his heavy sword belt. "Now get out of me sight."

As Morris hurried away, his cane tapping frantically against the stone, Finn looked back up at the dark gallery one last time.

He had two days to figure out how to stop a wedding he had promised to his clan without plunging his people into a civil war. He had two days to keep his hands off a woman who occupied all his thoughts.

God help me.

CHAPTER TWELVE