Page 87 of The Laird who Craved her

"Nay."

"Finn…"

"Nay."

Douglas studied him for a long moment before quietly leaving the room.

Her fingers twitched faintly inside his hand before she whispered something so softly he nearly missed it. "Papa..."

Finn froze. The single word pierced him more cleanly than any sword ever had. She wasn't seeing him; she was somewhere far away, somewhere he couldn't follow.

He swallowed hard. "It's all right," he murmured, though he knew she couldn't hear him.

Minutes later, her breathing quickened again, and her brow furrowed. "Dinnae leave..."

The plea was barely audible. Finn leaned closer until their joined hands rested against his forehead. "Never. " H is voice broke on the word. "I'll never leave ye again."

She never answered, carried away by the fever once more.

The night crawled forward with another basin of cool water, another dose of medicine, and another fresh cloth across her forehead. Then, just before dawn, the healer placed her hand against Claire's brow once more. She waited, then smiled.

"The fever's broken." Finn stared at her.

"What?"

"She'll live."

For the first time since finding the abandoned carriage, Finn breathed, the air leaving his lungs in one long, trembling exhale he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

The chamber door opened again, and Douglas entered quietly, removing his rain-soaked gloves. "The Ross men have scattered." Finn listened without looking away from Claire. "But there are still clans choosing sides."

"The council's waiting."

Silence settled over the room as Finn looked down at Claire, whose breathing had become slow, steady, and peaceful. He carefully released her hand for the first time in hours, his fingers lingering against hers before he rose.

"Keep this room guarded."

"Aye."

"No one enters without the healer's leave."

"It'll be done."

Finn bent over the bed, looking at her for a moment. The bruise on her cheek had darkened, and loose strands of dark hair rested across the pillow, making her look impossibly fragile. With infinite care, he brushed those strands away and pressed the gentlest kiss against her forehead.

"I'll finish this," he whispered.

Warm sunlight spilled across the meadow. Claire laughed as she ran through knee-high wildflowers, her small hand disappearing into her mother's. She couldn't have been older than six.

"Slower," her mother called, laughing. "Ye'll tumble."

"I willnae!" she looked back.

The meadow was gone, and stone walls rose around her instead…Rosewood. The training yard lay empty beneath a sky the color of silver. She turned slowly.

"Finn?"

No answer, only wind. Then laughter.