Page 45 of The Laird who Craved her

Molly frowned, her brows knitting together. "Daenae talk daft. Ye were nowhere near the southern pass when they ambushed him."

"You ken what I mean, Molly." Claire pushed the basin away, the water sloshing over the side to hiss against the hot stones of the hearth. She stood up, wrapping her arms around her middle, suddenly feeling too exposed.

"The message he was carrying... the reason they attacked him. It's because word has spread. The rival clans know Finn has taken a bride. They ken the betrothal is meant to secure his borders, and they are testing his defenses. They attacked that boy to send a message to Laird MacRae. Because of me."

"Men in these Highlands dinnae need a bride as an excuse to spill blood, mistress," Molly said practically, picking up another stocking from her basket. "If it wasnae ye, it would be a dispute over cattle, or a border stone moved three feet to the left, or a slight from a hundred years ago that someone suddenly remembered over a pint of ale. Ye cannae take the sins of the glens on yer own shoulders."

"But Finn is the one who has to answer for it," Claire insisted, her voice tight. "He is the one who has to ride out, to retaliate, to put himself in danger. And they will keep pressing him, trying to weaken him, because they think I am his vulnerability."

Molly paused, the darning needle glinting in the firelight. A slow, knowing look crept into her eyes, replacing the pragmatic comfort from a moment before. "Ah. So that's what this is about."

"What?" Claire asked defensively.

"Ye're doin' it again," Molly said, a wicked little glint appearing in her eye that Claire had learned to be remarkably wary of over the past few weeks.

"Doing what?"

"Starin' at nothin' with yer mouth all soft like that, worryin' over the Laird's neck instead of yer own." Molly let out a low, breathless chuckle. "I've seen that face before, mistress. Usually right before a lass does somethin' remarkably foolish."

Claire busied herself with the damp sleeves of her gown, which did not, in fact, need adjusting. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I am merely expressing appropriate concern for the people of this household."

"Course ye are." Molly settled back in her chair with the air of a woman who fully intended to enjoy herself at Claire's expense. "It wouldnae have anythin' to do with what happened out in the bailey last night, then, would it? Right before all that commotion at the gates. When a certain Laird pulled ye into the shadows and kissed ye senseless in the middle of a downpour?"

Claire's head snapped up so fast her neck ached. "How could you possibly…"

"I'd gone out for more linen from the store shed," Molly said, unrepentant, the glint in her eye sharpening. "Nearly walked straight into the pair of ye before I'd the sense to duck back behind the well. I dinnae mean to watch, mistress, truly, but ye dinnae exactly make it easy to look away."

Heat climbed straight up Claire's throat, searing her cheeks. "You saw."

"Aye. Every soaked, scandalous moment of it." Molly grinned, unrepentant and delighted. "Ye should have seen yer face, mistress, when he finally let ye up for air. Ye looked like a woman who'd forgotten her own name, let alone what century she was standin' in."

"I looked like a woman standing in freezing rain, shocked out of her wits," Claire said, grasping for dignity and finding absolutely none.

"Mm." Molly did not look remotely convinced. "And did the shock also account for the way ye had yer hands tangled in his hair? Or the way he had ye pressed so hard against the stone wall, I thought the masonry might give way? Was that just a happy accident of the weather, too?"

"Molly, please."

"I'm only sayin' what I saw, mistress." The teasing faded slightly, replaced by a softer, more earnest tone. "A woman doesnae kiss a man back like that unless she means it. And a man like Laird MacRae doesnae let himself be caught kissin' a woman like that at all, nay matter how dark the bailey, unless he's already lost the fight against wantin' her. That kiss wasnae an accident of the storm, mistress. And when that rider came thunderin' through the gates nae a quarter hour later, bleedin' near to death, I still saw ye pressed against that wall in his eyes, every time he looked yer way over the boy's wound."

Claire closed her eyes, the vivid recollection making her knees feel dangerously weak. It had been raw. It had been out of control. It was the kind of kiss that shifted the axis of the world, leaving nothing the same in its wake.

"It cannae happen again," Claire whispered, the words tasting like ash in her mouth.

"Why ever nae? Ye're his betrothed. Soon to be his wife."

Because I’ll lose myself forever to him.

The thought rose up so fast and so sharp it physically hurt. The guilt of the attack, the undeniable, terrifying chemistry between them, his protective fury, it all pointed to one inevitable conclusion for a man like Finn MacRae. He would excise the vulnerability. He would remove the target.

She must have let the sudden, crushing realization show on her face, because Molly's grin vanished.

"Mistress?" Molly prompted gently. "What is it?"

"It's nothing." Claire turned away, smoothing her skirts with trembling hands. "I only meant to say it was a moment of poor judgment. Brought on by the storm, the blood, and the fright of the ambush. It willnae be repeated."

Molly's eyes narrowed, sharp and knowing in a way that made Claire distinctly uncomfortable. She saw too much, this woman. "If ye say so, mistress. But a fire like that doesnae just burn out because ye ask it nicely."

"I do say so." Claire moved toward the heavy oak door before Molly could pry any further, before she had to examine too closely why the very thought of Finn never touching her again sat in her chest, heavy and suffocating. "I'm going down to the library. I could use a book, and some quiet."