Page 22 of The Laird who Craved her

Finn didn't argue. He simply closed the remaining distance, wrapping his hand around her wrist. His grip was controlled, but not harmful. Claire gasped, her breath catching in her throat. He drew her arm from behind her back, forcing the letter between them.

Being this close to him was torturous. She could see the faint scar along his chiseled jaw. Her lips parted as her body betrayed her mind, flaring with a sudden pulse of heat.

"Let me go, Finn," she whispered, her voice losing its edge, turning soft.

Finn’s gaze dropped to her lips as his thumb traced a slow circle against her inner wrist. "Ye told him," Finn murmured, his voice dropping. "Ye told MacSween everything."

"Of course I told him!" Claire cried, using the anger to mask the way her body wanted to lean into him. "He is me family! What are ye trying to do, Finn? Are ye trying to isolate me from everyone I trust? Am I a prisoner here after all?"

"Ye are me betrothed!" Finn rumbled back. "If Leo MacSween marches his vanguard through me western passes because his little cousin sent a frantic letter, it willnae be a scandal, Claire; it will be a bloody war! Ye should seek themafterthis arrangement is dissolved!"

"I am nae frantic!" Claire shrieked, her face inches from his, her gray eyes burning with gray fire. "I told him the truth! I told him I am safe! I told him it is temporary! If ye think I am going to sit in this castle and let yer councilmen force a wedding ceremony without me family knowing, ye are mad!"

They stared at each other, their breath coming in gasps. The push-pull dynamic between them was so taut it felt as though the room itself might shatter from the tension.

Finn stared down at her, tracing the wild curls framing her face. Slowly, he reached down and took the parchment from her.

Claire let out a defeated cry, but Finn didn't break the seal. He held the letter, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Douglas!" Finn barked toward the open doorway.

Douglas was at the threshold a second later, eyebrows rising as he took in the sight of his Laird and Lady. "Aye, Finn?”

"Take this," Finn ordered, throwing the letter toward Douglas. "Get me the fastest rider. Tell him to ride north through the low pass, and if he stops before he hits MacSween territory, I’ll have his boots for stirrups. Deliver it personally to the Laird."

Douglas caught the parchment. "To Leo MacSween? Finn, if the council sees a rider going north?—"

"Let them look!" Finn growled, his gaze still locked onto Claire’s face. "Move yer boots, Douglas."

"Aye, me Laird," Douglas muttered, as he disappeared down the corridor.

Finn released Claire’s wrist, though he didn't leave her space. Claire’s heart pounded frantically as she looked up at him.

"Why did ye do that?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Ye said it would cause a war."

"Because ye are a terrible liar when ye are frightened, lass," Finn said softly. "And if ye feel like a prisoner in me home, I have already failed me clan. But understand this, Claire... if MacSween comes to Rosewood with his swords drawn, I willface him. And I willnae let him take ye back until our three weeks are done."

CHAPTER TEN

The roaring cheers of the great hall seemed to vibrate through Claire’s boots, but her focus remained anchored across the room.

Finn hadn't broken eye contact with her for the better part of an hour. He sat at the high table like a towering monument of shadow and iron, his large hand loosely wrapped around a silver horn of ale that he hadn't touched in ages. The dark forest green and navy blue tartan wrapped across her chest felt suddenly heavy, the fabric catching the heat of the blazes and pressing it flat against her skin.

With a slow, deliberate breath to steady the erratic hammering behind her ribs, Claire rose from her seat. She maneuvered through the chaotic, joyous sea of the celebration, weaving past gossiping women, dodging a pair of laughing children chasing a hound pup, and ignoring Douglas, who was currently trying to balance a wooden stool on his chin to the roaring delight of three young warriors.

She stopped at the edge of the high table, right in front of Finn’s chair.

"Laird MacRae," she said, her voice clear, though her fingers clutched the heavy pleats of Janet’s borrowed Highland gown to keep them from trembling.

Finn looked up, his gaze suffocatingly intense, the golden candlelight highlighting his chiseled jaw and scar. "Lady Claire," he rumbled, his voice like a touch.

"I... I wanted to thank ye," Claire whispered, her gray eyes remarkably soft as she glanced briefly toward the warm, laughing crowd. "Yer people have been... wonderful. Janet, Douglas, the housekeeper... they have made me feel more welcome in two days than London society ever did in ten years. I felt I should tell ye."

Finn stared at her, his throat turning instantly to dust. The scent of her— meadowsweet, fresh rain, and something intoxicatingly feminine— was washing over him in thick waves, making his head spin.

Before he could force his tight jaw to uncoil and offer a proper response, a young, eager warrior named Keith stepped up beside Claire’s shoulder.

"Laird Finn, pardon the intrusion," Keith said, bowing his head respectfully before turning a wide, hopeful grin toward Claire. "But since the pipes are playing a proper strathspey and ourfuture Lady is the finest sight in the valley, I was wondering if I might have the honor of a dance?"