Page 43 of The Laird who Craved her

"Fetch the willow bark and some strong ale. He needs something for the pain immediately." Mrs. Campbell ordered a maid next to her. "We need more linen!" She then shouted to the kitchen maids who were hovering nervously in the doorway. "And fetch the stitching needles. This wound is deep."

"I am pressing as hard as I can," Claire replied, her voice strained. She looked up at Finn, her eyes wide with alarm. "He is losing too much blood. Is there a healer in the keep?"

"We are our own healer, me Lady," Douglas answered grimly, stepping up beside the table. "Keep holding it exactly like that."

Finn's fingers brushed her over the bloody linen, causing a sharp shock and drawing his gaze to hers. His hand stayed, resting on her wrist, feeling her pulse—proof she was still warm and alive. Her swollen lips showed his lack of restraint.

"Tell me exactly what happened, lad," Finn urged the messenger, keeping his voice steady. "How many men did you come across?"

"Two dozen," the boy rasped, his head thrashing side to side. "They came out of the treeline near the river. They slaughtered the caravan guards. They left me alive specifically to carry the message. " He then gasped, "Water." He turned to Finn, his hands blindly gripping his wet sleeves. "Laird MacRae. I must speak with ye about the message."

"Drink first," Finn commanded gently, taking a cup from a pale-faced servant. He held it to the man’s cracked lips. "Slowly, lad. Daenae choke."

The messenger swallowed greedily. He forced his eyes open, searching wildly until he locked onto Finn’s face.

"The southern borders," the man gasped once he gulped the last of the water, his grip tightening on Finn’s arm. "The ambush last week. The surviving riders."

"What of them?" Finn asked, keeping his voice dangerously low so panic would not spread through the crowded hall. "Did they reach Ross?"

"They talked," the messenger choked out, squeezing his eyes shut as Claire pressed harder against his side. "They spread the word across the glens. They told everyone that the Devil of the North has taken a bride."

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the immediate area. Douglas cursed softly. Finn felt the blood freeze in his veins. He deliberately refused to look at Claire.

"What exactly are they saying?" Douglas growled, leaning heavily over the table.

"Word has spread that ye've taken a bride and mean to secure an heir quickly, me Laird," the messenger continued, his voice dropping to a frantic whisper. "The rival clans are circlin' like wolves that scent a transition of power comin'. They mean to strike before yer bloodline is secured, before the succession locks and the MacRae name stands unshakeable again."

They think I am vulnerable,Finn thought, his mind racing through tactical defenses.They think me focus is on a woman instead of the war. And God help me, they are nae wrong.

"Do ye ken who commands them?" Finn demanded.

"Nay, me Laird," the boy winced in agony. "Only that they're gathering, and gathering fast. Word among them is that the MacRae clan will fall because their Laird is too busy warming his bed with English silver.”

He passed out.

Claire flinched. The tiny movement did not escape Finn's notice. He placed his large hand gently over hers on the bloody linen, silently steadying her trembling fingers.

"See to his wounds," Finn instructed Mrs. Campbell quietly. "Give him the willow bark and keep him warm. If he wakes again, I want to ken immediately."

Finn stood up to his full height, turning his back on the bloody table. He looked at Douglas and the other senior warriors who had gathered around the center of the hall. The festive atmosphere was completely dead.

"Council room," Finn ordered. "Now."

Finn didn't wait to see if they followed. He hurried up the narrow stone stairs to his private solar, pushed open the oak door, and entered the dim room filled with a massive wooden table covered in faded parchment maps.

Douglas closed the door after the last warrior and barred it. Six men, including old Robert Grant, sat inside, along with fourothers loyal to Finn. Finn placed his palms on the map table, which was curling beneath his fingers, but did not sit.

"Say it plainly," he said. "All of it."

"Someone holds the southern pass," Douglas said, tracing a scarred finger along the worn parchment. "If the messenger's numbers are true, nearly thirty men now. Mercenaries, likely, bought with silver from more than one purse."

"Thirty men cannae hold a pass against us," one of the younger warriors muttered.

"They dinnae need to hold it," Robert Grant said, his voice like gravel dragged over stone. "They need only to be seen holding it. Every clan between here and the coast will hear of it by week's end, and they will ask themselves whether the MacRae still commands respect, or whether he means to sit on a betrothal forever while his lands go unprotected by an heir."

The words landed exactly where the old man intended them to land. Finn felt his jaw tighten, but he said nothing.

"The messenger spoke true," Douglas said grimly. "Word of the betrothal has traveled faster than any of us hoped to contain. Every rival within three days' ride kens ye have taken a bride."