Page 33 of The Laird who Craved her

The adrenaline from the near-fall was fading, leaving her nerves hyper-aware and burning. She sat pressed against Finn’s chest with no cloak between them, just her gown and his doublet separating her skin from his heat.

Every step the black warhorse took made her move in perfect, painful sync with him. As the horse descended a slight incline, Claire’s hips shifted, pressing her back against his abdomen. When climbing, Finn’s thighs braced her legs, caging her with his body.

It was intoxicating.

Finn’s jaw was locked so tightly the pale scar on his cheekbone stood out in stark relief. He stared straight ahead, refusing to look down at her, but the iron band of his arm around her waist felt possessive, heavy, and deliberate.

Ahead of them, Douglas and Violet were engaged in quiet, steady conversation, guiding the horses carefully over the rockypath, effectively giving Finn and Claire a small, fragile bubble of privacy amidst the vast, open glens.

Claire knew Violet sensed the tension behind them. The silence between her and Finn was growing too loud and revealing. Their push-and-pull was fraying. She needed to break the silence and remind them this was a political charade before losing her mind.

She tilted her head back slightly, looking up at his sharp, uncompromising profile.

"I bet ye regret this arrangement now," Claire whispered softly.

She expected him to agree. She expected a dry, sarcastic comment about how southern women were entirely too much trouble, or a gruff complaint about nearly losing a good horse to the river.

Instead, Finn’s arm tightened almost imperceptibly around her waist, his large fingers pressing warmly into her side, right against her ribs.

"Every morning," Finn answered, his voice a raw, gravelly rasp.

Claire’s stomach dropped. The blunt admission hit her like a bucket of icy water. She turned her face away, staring blindly at the passing heather, her throat tightening with a sudden, humiliating sting of tears.

Of course, he regrets it,she thought miserably.He is a Laird. He needs peace, and I have brought him nothing but chaos, danger, and a meddling cousin. I am a burden he never asked for.

"I am sorry for the trouble, Finn," she whispered, her voice incredibly small, fighting to keep it steady. "It is only a few more days."

Finn did not reply immediately.

The black horse stepped carefully over a large, moss-covered stone. As the beast shifted, Finn leaned forward slightly.

His mouth brushed far too close to her ear. The warm, ragged puff of his breath sent a violent, wicked shiver straight down her spine, making her gasp softly.

"Ye misunderstand me, lass," Finn murmured, his voice dropping into a dark, intimate whisper that belonged in a shadowed bedchamber, not the open Highland air.

Claire froze, her breath catching in her throat.

"I daenae regret the danger," Finn breathed against her ear, his lips almost grazing the sensitive skin. "I regret the arrangement."

He paused, his chest expanding as he drew in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her hair.

"Because every day I wake wanting to do things to ye I shouldnae."

Heat exploded through her entire body instantly.

It was a flash fire, a sudden rush of desire that swept away her rational thought. Her pupils dilated, fingers curling into his dark plaid. His primal hunger shattered his iron discipline, exposing her to his deep want.

“And I shouldnae, because ye’ll be leaving soon, and we willnae have anytime together.”

Claire could not speak. If she opened her mouth, she knew she would beg him to pull the horse off the path, to take her into the shadows of the pine trees and show her exactly what he woke up wanting to do.

She leaned her head back, yielding completely to the heavy, secure cage of his chest. Finn let out a low, ragged sigh, his cheek resting briefly against her dark, wind-blown curls as the black horse carried them steadily toward the distant stone walls of Rosewood Castle.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Dozens of women sat in clusters, their looms clacking rhythmically. Young women laughed while untangling yarn, sharing secrets. Small children slept beside peat fires. In the corner, two grandmothers argued loudly over an incomprehensible weaving pattern.

"I am telling ye, Elspeth, the green thread goes under the blue!" one grandmother barked, waving a wooden shuttle in the air.