Page 38 of The Laird who Craved her

"Should I be concerned?" Claire asked, her gaze darting from Finn’s rigid posture to Violet’s smug, closed-off expression. "Is this discussion ending in a duel? Because if so, I would like to request that ye both leave the horses out of it."

Violet burst into a peal of melodic, clear laughter. "A duel? With me, Claire? I have better things to do than engage in fisticuffs with a man who thinks he’s an impenetrable wall."

Finn muttered something under his breath. He took a sharp step back, effectively putting distance between himself and thetwo terrifying women. He adjusted his heavy sword belt, his face once again a flawless mask of unyielding stone.

"I have business at the grain store," Finn stated, looking deliberately at the wall instead of Claire. He strode past them, his heavy boots sounding like rolling thunder on the packed earth of the floor. "See that the carriage is packed by noon."

Claire watched him go, her brow furrowed in deep confusion. She turned back to her cousin.

"What was that about?" Claire asked.

Violet just smirked, grabbing the thick leather reins of her mare. "Nothing of consequence, dear cousin. Only a man realizing that his walls are starting to crack.”

The departure happened before midday. The lively morning market faded into a tense atmosphere as the MacSween carriage was readied in the courtyard. The sky over Rosewood Castle darkened with thick clouds, blocking the sunlight and casting an ominous twilight. Claire stood near the gates with hands in her cloak pockets, while Molly dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

"I shall see ye soon," Violet said, wrapping Claire in a final, fierce embrace. "Remember what I told ye. Daenae let him intimidate ye. He is only a man."

"I will remember," Claire promised, forcing a smile she did not truly feel.

She watched Violet step into the grand carriage. The MacSween guards mounted their horses, their armor clinking loudly in the quiet courtyard.

Douglas nodded to the departing party near the gates.

Finn was absent.

The carriage rolled out into the muddy road, wheels groaning. Claire watched until the silver crest faded into the mist.

She is gone.

A gust of wind brought the metallic scent of rain. The first heavy drop struck near her boot.

"Come inside, Lady Claire," Douglas urged gently, stepping closer. "The sky is turning foul. We are in for a wicked storm."

"I am coming," Claire whispered, tearing her gaze away from the empty road.

She turned to follow Douglas back toward the keep, but a movement near the battlements caught her eye. She looked up. Finn stood on the high stone walkway overlooking thecourtyard, not looking at the departing carriage but directly down at her.

Even from a distance, his intense green eyes and the stormy setting made him formidable. He did not look away when she caught him; he stood firm, wind tearing at his hair and plaid.

Claire held his gaze, her breath catching. The distance felt irrelevant as rain struck her cheek, signaling the storm's break.

She lifted her chin in a silent, daring challenge, holding his stare for one agonizing second before turning her back on him. She gathered her skirts and walked proudly into the warmth of the great hall, leaving the Devil of the North standing alone in the rain.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The storm was not just an inconvenience; it was a siege. For two days, rain hammered Rosewood Castle's stone walls, while the wind howled through the glens, trapping everyone inside. The sky was a dark, endless charcoal, and freezing mist cloaked the world beyond.

Inside, it was a golden sanctuary. Claire naturally slipped into clan life, not playing a role but living it, as days blended in the warmth of the hearth. She spent her time in the kitchen with Mrs. Campbell, preparing the meal amid scents of thyme, rosemary, and baking bread.

"Ye have a steady hand for an English lady," Mrs. Campbell noted, her voice raspy.

"My mother taught me," Claire said. "She said a home is only as good as the hearth that warms it."

"She was a wise woman," the housekeeper replied, tossing a handful of salt into the pot. "A home is built of more than just stone, lass. It is built of the people who break bread together. Ye are starting to look like ye belong here, despite the fancy upbringing. Even the mud on yer skirts looks like it belongs to the land."

Claire smiled, though she kept her eyes on the carrots to hide the sudden moisture in her gaze. "I am nae so sure about belonging, Mrs. Campbell. I am still learning how to tell the difference between a Highland dance and a tavern brawl."

"There isnae much difference, truly," the older woman cackled, stirring the stew with a massive iron ladle. "The dance just has better music, and the brawls usually end with someone paying for the broken stools. Either way, everyone goes home with a story."