Page 28 of Claimed By a Ruthless Scot
Once. Twice. Again.
Their faces were close enough now that he could feel the faint brush of her breath against his cheek, uneven and warm. Her eyes remained fixed on his chest, on the simple proof that he was real and present.
Gradually, so gradually he barely dared hope, her breathing began to falter into something less frantic. It was still broken and uneven but no longer racing toward the edge of collapse.
Every instinct in him screamed to pull her close. He had done it countless times before with Catriona, when dark dreams had wracked her small body, rocking her gently until the worst passed. He knew exactly how to hold someone like this, how to anchor them in the now.
But this was different. This was a woman who bristled at control, who guarded herself fiercely, who might shy away the moment his arms closed around her. And the last thing he would do was turn comfort into another source of fear.
So, he stayed where he was, close enough to be felt and steady enough to lean on. For a few breaths more, they remained likethat, with her hand against his chest, and his breathing a steady guide through the wreckage of her fear.
Then, gently but decisively, Elaina pulled away. Her hand slipped from his shirt. She drew back, creating space between them, as though she were reassembling herself piece by piece. The trembling had eased, though the shadows still lingered in her eyes.
“I feel better now.” The words were careful and controlled. “Really.”
Duncan nodded at once and cleared his throat, the sudden awareness of how close they had been settling into him with delayed force. He rose smoothly to his feet, reclaiming distance as readily as he had surrendered it.
“Good,” he said simply. “If ye need me…” He gestured toward the wall. “Me room is next door.”
She inclined her head, not quite meeting his eyes. “Thank ye.”
He hesitated only a fraction of a second longer, then turned and moved for the door. He closed it softly behind him, listening to the sound of the latch settling with a muted click. In the corridor, Duncan paused, drawing a slow breath he had not realized he was holding.
Whatever ghosts haunted her dreams, he knew this much now with absolute certainty: they would not chase her alone while she remained under his roof.
Laird Lachlan MacKenzie rode through the gates of Castle Fraser with the confidence of a man who expected obedience as his due.
His grey hair was pulled back neatly, revealing a strong jawline marked by a scar that cut sharply across his right cheek. It was a souvenir of a war he had not won, and he hated wearing it on his face.
His ice-blue eyes swept the courtyard with cold appraisal as he dismounted, his left leg stiff as he moved. He limped, but he did so proudly, daring anyone foolish enough to mistake injury for weakness.
The great hall doors opened at his approach.
Laird Alasdair Fraser stood waiting. His smile strained at the edges. Servants bowed. Men stepped aside.
“Laird MacKenzie,” Fraser greeted, forcing warmth into his voice. “Ye are welcome.”
MacKenzie did not bother with pleasantries. His gaze slid past Fraser, already searching the hall. “Where is me blushing bride?”
The wordblushingcurled unpleasantly on his tongue, and something that was supposed to sound lovely and delightful, turned into something deliberate and cruel.
Fraser hesitated. It was the briefest pause, but MacKenzie noticed everything.
“She has… escaped,” Fraser said at last.
MacKenzie stilled.
“Escaped,” he repeated softly, as if tasting the sound of a word he had never heard before.
The sound echoed in the vast hall, thin and sharp. Fraser shifted his weight, unease creeping into his expression.
“Our men nearly had her,” Fraser added quickly. “They cornered her in the alley behind an inn. But before they could secure her, they were attacked.”
“Attacked,” Lachlan echoed again, yet his voice was dangerously calm.
A dark flame flickered behind his eyes, then vanished beneath a mask of icy control. His hands curled slowly into fists at his sides.
Fraser shifted his weight from one foot to the other uneasily. “According tae me men,” he said, choosing his words with care, “the man who intervened, who… took her from them, was Laird Duncan Grant himself.”
