Page 42 of The Laird who Craved her

The faint voice grew louder as Molly, near the courtyard edge, held a flickering lantern, searching for her lady. Finn, frozen and breathless, remembered her ghostly lips on his. He glanced at Claire, still motionless, her lips swollen, chest heaving under her damp gown.

"Did ye hear me, Claire?" he demanded roughly, his voice a low vibration that barely cut through the storm. "I am nae playing a parlor game. Ye must understand the fire ye are stoking."

Claire did not blink. She held his gaze with a steady, breathtaking defiance that made his pulse hammer wildly in his throat. The voice called out again, much closer this time, echoing loudly off the high stone walls.

"I shall, then," she whispered, a daring spark returning to her grey eyes.

She gathered her soaked skirts in both hands, offered a mocking, perfectly executed curtsy right there in the freezing mud, and turned her back on him. Finn watched her walk away, his jaw clenched tight. She moved with quiet dignity, intercepting her frantic maid and disappearing into the shadows of the heavy timber doors.

I should walk away. I should put a locked door and a hundred armed men between us before I ruin her completely.

He stayed out in the punishing weather for a long time, needing the ice to freeze the reckless desires right out of his head. When the cold finally seeped deep enough into his bones to numb his skin, Finn turned and walked toward the main entrance.

He pushed the heavy oak doors open, stepping into the antechamber. He intended to march straight to his solar. But as he reached for the iron handle of the inner doors, a sudden commotion erupted from the outer gatehouse behind him.

"Open the gates!" a perimeter guard shouted from the watchtower. "We have a rider!"

"Hold yer positions!" another guard yelled back. "Identify yerself!"

"It is MacRae colors!" the first voice roared. "He is wounded! Open the gates now!"

Finn shoved the outer doors open and sprinted back into the rain, his hand dropping instinctively to the heavy iron hilt of his broadsword. The massive iron hinges of the main gates groaned loudly as two sentries pushed them wide.

A horse stumbled violently onto the wet cobblestones. The beast was lathered in dark blood, its chest heaving with utter exhaustion. A man was slumped over the saddle, his fingers tangled uselessly in the coarse mane.

"Help him!" Finn roared, crossing the courtyard in long strides.

Douglas appeared from the armory a second later. Together, they reached the horse just as the rider lost his grip and slid sideways. Finn caught the man before he hit the mud. The metallic stench of fresh blood immediately overpowered the crisp scent of the rain.

"Me Laird," the man wheezed, his head rolling back against Finn’s arm.

It was a young guard from one of the factions that set out earlier in the day. A deep, jagged slice cut across his ribs, and an arrow shaft was snapped off clean in his left shoulder.

"Who did this to ye, lad?" Douglas demanded, grabbing the horse's reins to steady the panicked animal.

"Enemy banners," the messenger choked out, coughing weakly. "They hold the southern pass. I couldnae make out whose colors in the dark and the rain."

"Stay with me," Finn ordered, his voice tight and controlled. "Douglas, clear the hall."

Finn hoisted the bleeding man into his arms, ignoring the warm blood soaking into his own wet clothes. He turned and carried the wounded messenger directly toward the great hall, kicking the heavy inner doors wide open with his boot.

Everyone was still laughing and dancing. The fiddlers were playing a fast, joyful reel.

"Clear a table!" Finn shouted, his voice echoing fiercely off the high stone rafters. "Get Mrs. Campbell and fetch a bowl of water! Move!"

The music died. The clansmen parted like the sea, their faces grim and pale. Finn carried the man to the nearest heavy wooden table, gently laying him down upon the planks.

Claire was there immediately. She had barely managed to dry her hair, and she was wearing a fresh gown of simple dark wool, but she did not hesitate. She rushed forward alongside Mrs. Campbell, her hands grabbing a stack of clean linen from a nearby serving cart.

"Step back, Claire," Finn ordered sharply, gripping her wrist before she could press the cloth to the man's bleeding side. "Ye will ruin yer gown. This is nae a sight for ye to see."

"Damn the gown, Finn," Claire snapped back, her grey eyes flashing with absolute defiance. She yanked her wrist from his grip. "He is bleeding to death. Hand me that knife, Mrs. Campbell."

Finn watched in stunned silence as Claire took the sharp kitchen knife and expertly cut away the ruined, blood-soaked tunic. Her hands were trembling slightly, but her jaw was set with fierce determination.

"Hold the cloth exactly here, Lady Claire," Mrs. Campbell instructed, pointing to the deepest part of the wound. "Press hard. Daenae let up, nay matter how he screams."

"I have it," Claire promised.