Page 40 of The Laird who Craved her

"Try then, Mistress!" a young lad shouted, his face red from dancing. "Show us if ye have the fingers for it!"

Claire laughed happily and hesitated before singing herself into playing her instrument. The wood and bow felt awkward at first, but the music came naturally, recalling Highland rhythms her mother had hummed.

She closed her eyes, fingers flying, and the hall came alive—dancing faster, cheering louder. Claire played with passion, her body swaying, hair loose and wild, feeling the music pull the dancers into perfect sync. For moments, she forgot her titles and felt a deep belonging, immersed in the rhythm of struggle and joy.

She finished with a joyful crash, and the hall cheered wildly, her cheeks flushed with exhilaration. Then, as her eyes opened, she saw Finn across the hall, watching her intensely—still, silent, with burning green eyes that seemed to sear her. Her breath caught; the warmth turned hot, the crowd's cheers faded into a buzzing.

Finn’s gaze was hungry, making her feel as if she’d ignited the room and herself with her music, reaching out to him in a question only he answered. Without a word, Finn turned and left into the storm, the doors shutting behind him, bringing cold back into the room.

Claire stood in the sudden, ringing silence, the bow still trembling in her hand.

Good.Let him go. I’ve no need for a man who treats a moment of joy like a betrayal of his own rigid honor.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Finn stood near the far wall, his back braced against the cold stone of a pillar, watching Claire move through his hall .

She has nay right to look that radiant. She has nay right to make this hall feel so full, so complete, when I ken she is meant to leave. Every smile she gives them is a piece of me resolve being whittled away. I am watching a fire that is slowly consuming me, and I cannot turn away.

The way her hands moved across the fiddle strings, so nimble and confident, while loose curls fell into her face and danced with every movement, nearly drove him mad. It was a torture he had invited upon himself, watching the way her body swayed in time with the music, her spirit so bright it felt as though she were burning the very air around her. He remembered the feel of those hands, remembered the way they had brushed against his arm, and the memory made his blood boil with a mixture of desire and resentment.

Stop staring. Look at the grain reports. Look at the perimeter guards. Do anything but look at her.

But he could not. Everyone around her looked happier—guards smiling, kitchen staff dancing, air smelling sweeter. Finn was furious at himself for feeling brighter. Her laughter, the firelight on her throat, her defiant playfulness overwhelmed him. A man of silence, he was losing control, and it terrified him.

"Me Laird?"

Finn jumped, his head snapping toward the voice. It was Angus, one of his younger scouts, holding a platter of roasted meat.

"Aye?" Finn growled, his voice deeper than usual.

"The fiddler is asking if ye want the next reel to be something slower," Angus said, grinning. "He says the Mistress has the spirit of a banshee when she plays, and the men are getting worked up."

"Tell him to play whatever the hell he wants," Finn snapped, his gaze immediately darting back to Claire. "And tell him to quit gawking and focus on his strings."

"Aye, Laird," Angus muttered, backing away with a confused look.

Finn watched as Claire laughed at something the fiddler said, her head tilted back, her throat exposed in the golden light. Hefelt a sharp, stabbing jealousy that she could share that part of herself with anyone, even a musician, when he was the one who had spent nights guarding her safety.

How could one woman hold so much power?She was supposed to be a tool, a political convenience, but she is becoming the very air I breathe. The more I fight it, the more I feel myself unraveling. My men are watching her with admiration, me housekeeper is treating her like a daughter, and I—the one who should be the most vigilant—am the one most enchanted.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do. He left.

He turned on his heel, his heavy boots sounding like thunder against the stone floor, and strode toward the heavy timber doors. The transition to the outdoors was brutal. Rain poured heavily outside the hall, a freezing curtain of grey that should have been a mercy. It did nothing to cool the fire raging beneath his skin. The cold was meant to be a relief, a sharp, biting counterpoint to the heat that had been building in his chest all evening, but it felt like nothing against the internal burn.

He paced the courtyard, his boots sinking into the mud, his mind a frantic, untamable mess of frustration. He paced until he was breathless, the rain soaking his clothes and plastering his hair to his skull, yet the image of her, her flushed skin, the way she had looked at him, remained seared behind his eyelids.

I am a fool.I am a fool to think I can control this. I am a fool to think that I can survive her presence. She is a storm of her own making, and I am the one standing in the path of the lightning.

A moment later, he heard cheering erupt behind him, followed by the frantic, uneven cadence of footsteps hurrying through the rain. He stopped, his shoulders tensing, his jaw set like granite. He did not have to turn to know it was her. The scent of her, that faint, elusive lavender, seemed to cut through the rain.

Claire stopped several feet away, clutching her cloak tightly around herself as if trying to hold her own fragmented composure together. Her hair was already plastered to her face, and her gown was soaked through, but she did not seem to notice the freezing conditions. She looked like a ghost of the woman who had been dancing just moments before.

"Did I offend ye?" she asked breathlessly. "I ken it was inappropriate. I only got carried away. I would never disrespect yer musicians.”

Finn turned slowly, the rain dripping from the sharp angles of his face. He stared at her, standing there in the downpour, rain soaking through her curls, while music started to echo again faintly behind them from the hall. She looked frail, yet there was a stubborn fire in her eyes that refused to be quenched by the storm.

She is standing there in the rain, drenched and shivering, asking if she offended me,he thought, his heart slamming against his ribs.She has nay idea that the offense is not the music, but the way she makes me heart beat like a common soldier’s. She has nay idea that I am moments away from losing everything I have fought to protect. I could scream. Icould drag her into the keep and lock her away, and yet here I am, letting her stand in the freezing dark.