Page 1 of The Laird who Craved her

PROLOGUE

The women gathered beside the loch beneath a sky of silver stars, candlelight dancing across the still water. Older women wove heather and ribbons into delicate wreaths as ancient Gaelic blessings drifted through the evening air.

Claire stood between Beatrice and Violet, smiling despite herself.

"I still think this is nothing more than a Highland superstition."

Violet laughed. "Ye mock it every time, and yet ye never miss it."

"Because watching Beatrice become a Highland wife is far too entertaining."

Beatrice rolled her eyes before accepting the old silver ring from one of the elder women.

"As Eloise did before ye," the woman said softly. "And as did many brides before her."

With a quiet smile, Beatrice cast the ring into the loch.

The women waited.

Claire wandered toward the water's edge, still shaking her head at the old tradition.

Then something caught the moonlight.

Half-hidden beneath the rippling surface lay the silver ring.

She bent and lifted it into her palm.

When she turned, every woman was watching her.

Their knowing smiles sent an unexpected chill down her spine.

For the first time that evening, Claire wasn't laughing.

CHAPTER ONE

"Ye cannae keep ignorin' this forever."

Finn barely looked at Douglas, who stood beside him with his arms crossed and his breath clouding in the cold air. His man-at-arms had been building toward something all morning. Finn could feel it in the way Douglas kept glancing at him between orders to the men, in the set of his jaw that meant he was chewing on words he'd spoken before.

Finn stood tall, his broad shoulders squared against the chill, his thick wool plaid pinned tight at his shoulder with a heavy iron brooch. He was a towering figure among his men, hardened by ten years of brutal winters and constant vigilance, his dark hair cutting across a brow that rarely unknotted.

Finn said nothing.

"Did ye hear me?" Douglas asked, his voice rough as gravel.

"Aye."

"And?"

Finn's gaze swept the field. A group of men strained against a fresh beam destined for the outer perimeter wall, their muscles corded and their faces red with effort. The stone foundations were slow to rise, the heavy rain from the previous night having turned the earth into a treacherous bog.

One of them, a lad barely old enough to grow a proper beard, stumbled in the mud and nearly brought the whole thing down. The massive timber groaned. Finn was moving before he thought about it, catching the beam's edge and shoving it back into place.

"Plant yer feet," he barked. "The ground doesnae move. Ye do."

The lad nodded, his face flushing beneath the dirt as he gripped the wood with renewed desperation. Finn stood by until the beam was settled deep into the foundation trench, ensuring the line was straight, and the support stakes were driven deep into the clay.

Finn stepped back and wiped his palm on his thigh.