Page 29 of The Laird who Craved her

"Aye," he said, his eyes darkening. "Perfectly."

But he did not step back. He remained so close that the scent of him, pine and rain, seemed to suffocate her. The denial hung between them, a lie so fragile that even the wind seemed to mock it.

As she stood shivering on the edge of the cliffs, staring at the man who insisted he felt nothing, Claire realized the true torture wasn't the kiss—it was the devastating truth written in the way he refused to touch her, and the way she was dying for him to break his word.

Only a few days left,she reminded herself desperately, turning her back on the breathtaking view and the maddening man beside her to walk toward the waiting horse.

In a few days, I will ride north to Leo. I will leave this freezing castle, and I will never have to look into those green eyes again.

"Come then," Finn said gruffly, following her to the mare.

He reached out, his hands gripping her waist to lift her back into the saddle. His fingers lingered on her sides for just a fraction of a second too long, his thumb pressing warmly through the velvet of her gown before he finally pulled away.

As she settled onto the leather, looking down at his dark, unreadable face, Claire knew the next few days were going to be absolute torture.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Finn MacRae was a man of his word, and that was precisely the problem. Since their agonizing standoff on the edge of the world, he had maintained a polite, impenetrable distance. He did not seek her out in the quiet hours of the morning. He did not corner her in the shadowed alcoves of the great hall.

When they sat beside each other at the high table during supper, he ensured there was a respectable inch of space between their shoulders, addressing her only when the council members were actively watching them.

It was exactly what Claire had demanded.

Then why do I feel as though I am walking through a desert, dying of thirst?she thought miserably, pacing the length of her bedchamber for what felt like the hundredth time that morning.He is honoring the arrangement. I should be relieved. But every time he looks at me and immediately pulls his gaze away, it makes me feel sad.

"If ye wear a hole through the floorboards, the Laird will likely charge yer father for the timber," Molly murmured from the corner of the room. She was currently folding a linen chemise, her tone gentle but laced with a heavy sigh. "Sit down, Claire. Ye are making me dizzy, and ye havenae eaten more than a bite of yer bread."

"I cannae sit, Molly," Claire replied, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "Leo's rider should have returned by now. It has been days. What if the letter was intercepted on the road?"

"If yer father’s men cross the border, that giant brute downstairs will chop them into pieces and feed them to the hounds," Molly said matter-of-factly, tossing the folded linen into an open trunk. "For all his scowling, the man guards this castle like a dragon sitting on a pile of gold. Ye are safe here, lamb."

A deep, resonant horn suddenly blew from the outer watchtower, the sound echoing sharply off the stone walls of the keep.

Claire froze, her heart leaping straight into her throat.

"Riders!" a guardsman shouted from the courtyard below, his voice carrying through the thick glass of the window. "Open the gates! A carriage approaches!"

Leo’s response.

Claire didn’t wait for Molly to speak. She grabbed her cloak, threw it on, and hurried out the door, down the stone staircase. Her leather boots slapped loudly as she rushed through the hall, ignoring the surprised clanswomen by the hearths.

By the time she burst through the heavy timber doors and out into the crisp, biting Highland air, the courtyard was already humming with cautious activity. Several MacRae warriors had gathered near the stables, their hands resting warily on their sword hilts as a grand, heavy traveling coach rolled to a halt in the center of the muddy yard.

Claire recognized the crest painted on the timber door instantly. It was the silver stag of Clan MacSween.

She rushed forward, her breath pluming in the cold air, fully expecting one of her cousin’s rugged guards to step down and hand her a heavily sealed parchment containing Leo's instructions.

Instead, the carriage door swung open, and a woman stepped out.

She was wrapped in a thick, luxurious traveling cloak of deep blue wool, her dark hair pinned back perfectly despite the arduous journey. She stepped down into the mud with the effortless, commanding grace of a queen inspecting a battlefield, her sharp blue eyes scanning the rough stone of Rosewood Castle before landing directly on Claire.

Claire stopped dead in her tracks, the breath leaving her lungs in a massive, overwhelming rush. "Violet?"

Violet MacSween turned fully toward her. For a split second, the elegant, rational composure of the MacSween lady held firm. Then, it shattered.

Violet marched straight across the muddy courtyard, her heavy skirts swishing violently. Before Claire could even open her mouth to apologize for the absolute chaos she had caused, Violet raised her gloved hand and slapped Claire sharply across the arm, hard enough to make it sting through the velvet cloak.

"Ouch! Violet…"