Page 37 of The Laird who Craved her

I cannae be left alone here.If Violet leaves, I will have no one to anchor me. I will be at the mercy of this arrangement, and worse, at the mercy of a man who makes me forget how to breathe.

"Ye will do exactly what ye have been doing," Violet instructed, squeezing her hands reassuringly. "Ye will survive. Ye will play yer part in this false betrothal until the roads are safe, and then ye will come north to MacSween lands. It is a simple plan, Claire."

"It doesnae feel simple," Claire admitted, looking away toward the heavy stone walls of the keep. "Nothing about Finn MacRae is simple."

Violet offered a knowing, slightly sympathetic smile. "He is a terrifying man, I grant ye that. He looks as though he could snap a tree in half with his bare hands. But he looks at ye as though ye are the only fragile thing in his world. He willnae let any harm come to ye."

"I am nae worried about external harm, Vi," Claire sighed, dropping her gaze to the muddy cobblestones.

"I ken," Violet murmured softly. She released Claire's hands and adjusted her thick cloak. "I am going to the coach house to inspect me mares. I want to ensure they are properly rested forthe journey. Take Molly and gather the linens ye will need me to take back with me."

"I will," Claire agreed numbly.

Violet turned and walked toward the stables, her posture elegant and unbothered. Claire watched her go, a profound sense of isolation washing over her. She took a deep, steadying breath, forcing the panic down into a tightly locked box in her chest. She turned back to the market, grabbing Molly by the arm just as the maid prepared to launch a secondary assault on a weaver selling tartan blankets.

On the other side of the courtyard, Finn MacRae sought a distraction. He stalked the damp earth, hands on his sword belt, face a mask of stone. He needed to find his stable master to arrange heavy timber carriages for winter grain, or do anything involving physical labor and logistics, away from Claire Abbot. He entered the coach house, smelling fresh straw and leather, expecting his men checking grain carts, but found Violet MacSween.

"Ye leave so soon?" Finn asked, his deep voice echoing slightly in the quiet cavern of the coach house.

Violet did not look up, her hands moving expertly over the heavy iron buckles of the saddle. "I should return before me brother declares war officially, Laird MacRae. Leo has a penchant fordramatic exits, and I would prefer to be there to moderate his bloodlust."

Finn laughed, the sound dry and entirely humorless. "I suspect he will find his way to Rosewood regardless of yer intervention."

"Aye, he likely will," Violet admitted.

She gave the leather strap one final, sharp pull, the material creaking loudly under the tension. She glanced up, her blue eyes sharp and unblinking.

"Since this isnae a real betrothal, I’ve little purpose staying longer," Violet said, her voice steady. "But I ken yer position for making this arrangement. I ken pressure when I see it."

She smoothed a strand of dark hair away from her temple, her expression turning uncharacteristically grave. The playful, teasing demeanor she wore like a shield vanished completely.

"I saw it consume Leo for years," she continued, her voice dropping into a register that lacked all artifice. "The need to be the sword, the shield, and the law all at once. It hollows a man out if he isn't careful."

Finn shifted his weight, his eyes narrowing. He did not care for being analyzed, and he certainly did not care to be compared to the Laird of the MacSweens. He carried his burdens alone, and he required no pity from a visiting lady.

"I am nae Leo MacSween," Finn said, his tone clipped and hard.

"I never said ye were," Violet replied calmly, unfazed by his hostility. "But I wished to thank ye for helping Claire. She is a different woman than the one who left our lands, and I suspect ye have a great deal to do with that."

Finn stood silent, his gaze fixed firmly on the mare’s twitching ears. He felt an uncomfortable prickle of heat beneath his thick leather doublet.

I dinnae help her. I only tangled her deeper into the web I’ve spun for myself. I made her a target for me enemies, and I made her a prisoner to me own selfish desire.

Violet watched him, her gaze so incredibly steady it felt as though she were reading the very ink of his thoughts.

"Claire hides fear behind that stubborn, sharp tongue," Violet murmured, her voice turning soft. "She always has. She learned early on that if she made people laugh, they wouldn't notice she was lonely. But she’s stronger than she realizes. She survives."

Finn’s expression softened, just for a flicker of a second. The rigid line of his jaw relaxed.

"Aye. She is."

Then, as quickly as it had come, Violet’s softness vanished. Her expression sharpened, her blue eyes turning into pure, lethal flint.

"But hear me well, MacRae," she said, stepping forward to stand directly in his space, her small stature not dimming her absolute authority in the slightest. "If ye hurt her. If ye let this situation break her. Ye should prepare for the entirety of the MacSween vanguard arriving at yer gates armed for battle. I will lead the charge meself."

Finn opened his mouth to offer a sharp retort, but the doorway was suddenly blocked by a flash of crimson velvet.

Claire stood there, Molly bustling closely behind her, carrying two heavy, half-unpacked bags of linens. Claire looked between the two of them, her dark eyebrows arching high in clear suspicion.