Page 16 of The Laird who Craved her

"Lass, this is nae a jest," Finn growled, but his actions belied the harshness of his words.

His hands moved frantically across her arms, gripping her slender wrists to ensure they weren't broken, his calloused palms sliding up to her shoulders, squeezing gently. He checked her waist, his fingers searching for any hidden tear in the blue silk, any sign of blood, any injury whatsoever, despite the absolute madness still raging in his head.

She is so small,he thought, a sudden, terrifying wave of protectiveness crashing over him as his hands lingered on her narrow waist.

A bit of a thing, just as Douglas said. If I had been a second later... if he had taken her into the dark glens...

"Finn," she whispered, her voice a small, breathless sound that cut right through his internal panic.

He stilled, his hands remaining anchored to her waist, his palms absorbing the frantic, rapid thudding of her heart against her ribs. He was so close he could see the tiny flecks of silver in her gray eyes, could feel the rapid, warm puffs of her breath against his mouth. The scent of her… that sweet, southern scent of lavender mixed with the sharp smell of rain and crushed heather, filled his senses, dizzying him.

"Ye are shaking," he murmured, his voice softening into a register he had not used in ten years.

"I am nae shaking," she lied, her lower lip trembling despite her best efforts to look fierce. "It is just... the wind is cold."

"Lass, ye are a terrible liar when ye are frightened," Finn said softly, his thumb tracing a slow, completely unconscious circle against the silk over her hip. The touch sent a jolt of heat flaring in the space between them that had absolutely nothing to do with the violence that had just occurred. Her gray eyes drifted down to his mouth, her lips parting as she leaned into his body, her small hands flattening against his broad chest for support.

"Laird MacRae!" Douglas’s voice broke the spell like a stone shattering a mirror.

Finn pulled back instantly, though he didn't rise from his knees, his hands dropping reluctantly from her waist to rest on his thighs. He cleared his throat, his expression instantly hardening back into chiseled stone as Douglas rode back into the clearing soon afterward.

The old man-at-arms was breathing heavily from the chase, his horse lathered in white sweat, its nostrils flaring as Douglas reined it in near the carriage. He looked down at the dead raider on the ground, then at the groaning driver, an aging man Douglas had hired from the inn's stable.

“Killed all but one,” Douglas reported grimly, wiping a mixture of sweat and rain from his silver-streaked beard with the back of his leather glove. “One bastard escaped into the hills. He had a faster mount than me, Finn. He’ll be miles away before the sun hits the ridge.”

But Finn barely heard him. The old man's words were nothing but noise against the loud, roaring silence in his own ears.

Because Claire was still trembling beneath his hands, her gray eyes fixed on his face with an intensity that told him everything had just changed. The false betrothal wasn't just a game anymore. The enemy was already at their gates, and the woman in the mud had just become the center of his entire world.

"Douglas," Finn said, his voice low and dangerous as he finally rose to his feet, offering a hand to haul Claire up from the dirt. "Get the driver into the coach. We arenae stopping again until we are behind the walls of Rosewood."

He looked down at Claire, his fingers tightening over hers, refusing to let go even when she was safely on her feet. "Welcome to the MacRae clan, Lady Claire. I hope ye are as clever as ye claim, because tomorrow, the real fight begins."

Claire looked at his scarred hand wrapping hers, then up at his grim, green eyes, a small, reckless smile touching her lips despite the mud on her face. "Don't worry, Laird MacRae. I always finish what I start."

And as the carriage doors slammed shut once more, Finn mounted his stallion, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs as he looked toward the dark mountains ahead. The game had just become deadly.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Sweet heavens,” Claire breathed, as the massive oak doors of Rosewood Castle groaned open before her. For a second, she forgot to breathe at all.

After the freezing, muddy terror of the road, the great hall was an absolute assault on the senses. Roaring peat fires blazed in two massive hearths, casting a thick, golden warmth across the stone floors.

The air was heavy with the rich, savory scent of roasting mutton, boiled cabbage, and ale. Dozens of clansmen, women, and hounds moved through the space, their loud, overlapping voices creating a chaotic symphony of life that felt miles away from the silent, threatening forest she had just escaped. Two small children, their cheeks flushed pink with health, chased a bounding wolfhound pup right past Claire's sodden skirts, their bright laughter echoing off the high rafters.

Claire stood near the threshold, her jaw locked tight as she tried desperately not to show the tremor still lingering in her knees. She smoothed down her filthy, ruined blue velvet skirts, lifting her chin to adopt her finest London posture.

Daenae flinch, Claire. Daenae let them see the mud on yer velvet. If ye look like a victim, these people will treat ye like one. But sweet heavens, it is warm in here. It smells of real bread and safety.

"Move aside, ye great lumbering fools!" a sharp, commanding female voice barked from the crowd.

A short, stout woman with fiery red hair streaked with white came bursting through the cluster of warriors. She wore a simple dark wool gown, but she carried herself with the authority of an empress. The moment her bright hazel eyes landed on the travelers, she bypassed Finn entirely and marched straight toward Claire and Molly.

"Oh, look at the state of ye!" the woman cried, her face softening into an expression of fierce, maternal concern. "Dripping like drowned crows and shaking like leaves in November!"

Before Claire could utter a single polite greeting, the woman threw her arms around her, pulling her into an embrace that smelled of lavender, flour, and woodsmoke.

Claire froze, her arms hanging awkwardly at her sides for a split second. In London, embraces were calculated, stiff affairs. But this woman held her with an overwhelming, unconditionalkindness that caught Claire entirely off guard. A sudden, tight knot formed in her throat, and her eyes burned with a fierce, unexpected rush of emotion.