Page 41 of The Laird who Craved her

"Everyone was having a good time," Claire insisted softly, her voice barely a whisper against the wind. "Why did ye leave? Did the music pain ye so?"

"The music is fine," Finn bit out, his voice rasping, his gaze fixed anywhere but on her. "The noise, however, is a distraction I can ill afford."

Claire took a step forward, her head tilted as she searched his shadowed face. "A distraction." She wiped a stray drop of rain from her lashes, her gaze sharpening with a mixture of defiance and curiosity. "Ye’ve faced raiders without blinking, me Laird. A fiddle undoes ye?"

Finn finally looked at her, his expression tight, his jaw set against whatever he was fighting to keep buried. "Ye're nae a fiddle, Claire."

"Then what am I?" she countered, “A coward?”

Finn let out a harsh, jagged laugh. "A coward? Ye know nothing of cowardice, Claire."

"I daen ae?" she challenged, stepping into his personal space. "Why are ye holding back? Why do ye treat me like a threat to be managed when we both know that is not what I am?"

"Ach, just stop," he thought, his fingers curling into his palms until the skin of his knuckles went white.

"I am nae a threat," Claire whispered, her voice softening, her eyes searching his. "I would never act against ye, Finn. I would never do a thing without your permission."

She insisted she would never do something without requesting his permission first, her voice full of a sincerity that made his gut twist. It was too much. The contradiction of her, this highborn Englishwoman playing a Highland tune, this delicate thing surviving in his harsh world, was enough to shatter him. He could not take it anymore.

"Permission?" Finn laughed, the sound hollow and dangerous. "Ye think ye need permission to destroy me?"

He crossed the distance instantly.

He did not walk; he lunged. He closed the gap between them, his hands finding her face, his thumbs brushing against her wet skin before his mouth crashed onto hers.

He consumed her mouth while Claire gasped softly against him before gripping his wet hair in both hands and kissing him back with equal, reckless desperation. The rain drenched them both, cascading down their backs, but between them, there was only a searing, desperate heat.

What the hell am I doing?Violet trusted me. MacSween will kill me. Worse, perhaps, if there is any worse than death. Claire might actually break me . She is a storm of her own making, and I am the fool who opened the door. I am a man lost in a sea I cannot navigate.

He felt her fragile, desperate strength pulling him closer, the curve of her waist beneath her soaked velvet dress. For a moment, he forgot the council, debts, and war at his door. He only felt her, her frantic heartbeat against his. Each touch was surrender he wasn't ready for but couldn't resist. He kissed her savagely, teeth grazing her lip, tongue demanding a response she gladly gave. She wasn't just kissing him back; she was answering his unspoken challenge.

"Finn," she moaned into his mouth, the sound a plea and a demand all at once.

He couldn't help himself. He moved one hand down, his fingers spreading over the small of her back, arching her into him until she was flush against his hard, straining length. He could feel the shivers racking her body, but they weren't from the cold; they were from the sheer, unadulterated shock of their connection. He pulled back just enough to gasp for air, his forehead resting against hers.

"Do ye ken what ye are doing to me?" Finn groaned, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to rattle the very air between them.

Claire stood frozen, her heart drumming a frantic, uneven rhythm against her ribs. She didn't know the mechanics of this, nor its language, but her body seemed to have its own primitive knowledge. She reached out, her fingers trembling as they fisted into the heavy, soaked wool of his tunic. She didn't pull him in, nor did she push him away; she simply held on, anchored by the sheer, terrifying heat of him.

"I think ye already ken," she breathed, her voice barely a tremor in the dim light of the stables. "But... it frightens me."

Finn’s eyes darkened, shifting to a stormy shade. He closed the distance with a guttural sound. When his mouth touched hers, it was tentative, testing her reality. It wasn't a practiced kiss; it was raw, hungry, and deep. Claire gasped, her sound lost against his lips.

She had never known a man’s mouth could be so firm, demanding, yet gentle.

His hand cupped her jaw, a rough, searing touch that made her knees water. She reached up, hands tentative on his shoulders, feeling tension in his muscles. He leaned into her, pressing her against the stall. He tasted of rain and cedar, deepening the kiss, sparking heat in her belly that made her whimper. Finn shifted, drawing her closer. The friction of his wet clothes was maddening, overwhelming her senses.

He kissed her jaw, his lips trailing fire toward her pulse point, she tilted her head back, a low sound escaping her, unfamiliar. His ragged breath hit her skin, his hands restless—tracing herwaist then pressing against her spine, holding her as if she might shatter. Every touch was exploration: clumsy on her part, restrained on his, a dance of two terrified of the fire they had lit.

She was lost in his scent, his strength, and how his heart pounded with hers. The outside world—the war, council, duty—ceased. Only the wet wool and their racing blood remained, the terrifying realization she was becoming someone new.

Finn suddenly tore himself away, chest heaving with effort, his hands lingering on her shoulders, gripping her gown as if fighting the urge to pull her back.

"Aye, ye do that," he muttered roughly against her swollen, trembling lips, his voice a low, jagged vibration. He stepped away, putting a pained inch of space between them. "Next time, request leave first."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"Mistress! Lady Claire!"