Page 85 of The Laird who Craved her

Nay, ye will nae touch her.

Finn did not shout. He did not think. He simply crossed the muddy distance in three massive, impossible strides, the ground vanishing beneath his boots.

Callum lifted the knife to strike her, but Finn drove his heavy broadsword violently forward with absolutely everything he possessed. One clean thrust passed smoothly directly through Callum's back, emerging beneath his ribs just as the man raised his arm.

"Now... ye ken..." Callum whispered brokenly as blood touched his lips, the sharp knife slipping harmlessly from his dying fingers. "...what it feels like."

The terrible strength completely left Callum's legs, and Finn carefully eased the bloody sword free as the broken man collapsed heavily into the cold mud. Silence spread slowly across the clearing as the surviving Ross men lowered their weapons in surrender.

Finn let his own heavy sword fall, landing with a dull thud in the wet earth as he crossed the clearing in three hurried strides.

"Claire," Finn gasped out, dropping heavily to his knees directly before her.

His massive hands shook violently as he desperately reached for the rough ropes binding her delicate wrists, completely struggling against the heavy knots soaked tight with rain. He fumbled them once, then twice, until they finally loosened and the rope fell completely away.

"I am sorry," Finn whispered, his fingertips barely brushing the very edge of the terrible bruise blooming across her cheek, afraid to hurt her more.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The clearing had fallen silent. Rain continued to patter softly through the trees, washing away the blood that pooled in the churned earth. No one spoke as the surviving Ross men threw down their weapons. Douglas and the MacRae warriors were already binding those who remained alive, issuing quiet orders as they secured the camp.

Finn heard none of it.

He knelt before Claire, one hand cupping her bruised cheek while the other hurriedly worked the last knot free from her wrists. The ropes fell away, leaving angry red marks that circled her skin, twisting his stomach into knots.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again.

Claire's fingers trembled as they found his hand. "Ye came." Her voice was scarcely more than a breath.

Finn closed his eyes for the briefest moment. "I was too late."

"Nay," she gave the smallest shake of her head. "Ye're here."

The words settled somewhere deep inside him. For one precious heartbeat, the world disappeared…no war, no rain, no blood, only Claire.

He slipped one arm beneath her shoulders and another beneath her knees. She weighed almost nothing. As he lifted her, she winced faintly, her face tightening before she relaxed against his chest.

Douglas approached, wiping rainwater and blood from his sword before sliding it back into its scabbard. "The camp's secure."

Finn nodded without looking up. "Search the area."

"Aye."

"We'll question the survivors."

Douglas took one look at Claire before his expression changed. "My God..."

Finn frowned. "What?"

Douglas reached out and rested the back of his hand lightly against Claire's forehead. His face darkened immediately. "She's burning."

Finn looked down. Until that moment, he'd noticed only the mud staining her dress, the bruises along her wrists, and the swelling spreading across one side of her face. Now he felt it; even through the damp fabric of her cloak, heat radiated from her body, far too much.

His heart lurched. "Claire?"

She didn't answer. He shifted her slightly in his arms, but her head rolled weakly against his shoulder in an unnaturally limp movement.

Finn's pulse quickened. "Claire." Still nothing.