Page 4 of The Laird who Craved her

None of it stopped.

None of it ever stopped.

"If marriage is what me people need," he said finally, his voice rough, "then I will be the one to decide. Nae the council. Nae the old men who sit by the fire and remember battles they never fought."

Douglas studied him for a long moment, searching the cold green of Finn's eyes for any sign of hesitation.

Then, slowly, he nodded, releasing his grip on Finn's arm.

"That's all I'm askin'."

Finn did not answer.

He stood at the edge of the field with the wind tearing through his hair and the weight of ten years pressing down on his shoulders.

And somewhere out there, he thought, though he did not know why, something was coming.

Something that would change everything.

CHAPTER TWO

"Icannae go back."

The words left Claire's mouth before she could stop them, swallowed almost instantly by the rattling of the carriage wheels and the relentless drum of rain against the roof.

Molly, seated across from her, did not seem to hear. She was too busy chattering about the months they had spent at MacSween lands, the handfasting, the celebrations, the way Violet MacSween, her cousin, had cried during the vows, and tried to pretend she had not. Claire watched her maid's hands flutter as she re-tied the linen ribbons of a small traveling basket, her round face bright with the lingering excitement of the journey.

"Did ye see the size of the venison at the feast?" Molly pressed a hand to her chest dramatically, her dark eyes wide. "I've never seen anythin' like it. And the music! I thought me heart wouldburst from dancin'. Even the old men were flinging themselves about the hall like lads."

"Aye," Claire said.

The word tasted hollow.

Outside the window, the Highlands blurred past, green and gray and endless, shrouded in the kind of rain that seeped into a person's bones and stayed there. Claire pressed her palm to the cold glass and watched the hills disappear behind them. She was a striking woman of medium height, her dark, wavy hair partially escaping her velvet hood, and her gray eyes clouded with an anxiety she could barely contain.

I cannae go back.

“Lady Claire?” Molly’s voice was a steady hum against the rhythmic clatter of the iron-shod wheels. Something about the fiddler from the western glens who had played until his bow frayed. Something about the way the candlelight had caught Violet's hair during the handfasting ceremony, making the gold thread in her veil gleam. Something about…

Claire blinked, pulling her hand away from the chilly glass. "I'm sorry. What did ye say?"

Molly's expression softened, the animated joy fading from her features. The maid was not young, thirty-four now, with threads of silver beginning to show in her dark hair and lines around hereyes that came from a lifetime of worry. She smoothed the front of her plain gray wool kirtle, looking at Claire.

She had been Claire's mother's maid before the illness took her. Had stayed after, as promised, when Claire's mother had gripped her hand on that terrible bed and whisperedPromise me ye willnae leave her.

"I said," Molly repeated gently, leaning forward to rest a comforting hand near Claire’s knee, "ye look as though ye've seen a ghost. Ye've been staring at the heather for miles without speaking a single word, lass."

Claire almost laughed.

A ghost.

Nay. Something worse.

Reality.

The letter had arrived three days before she was meant to leave MacSween lands. Her father's seal, unmistakable in its thick red wax, had felt like a death warrant. The words had blurred together as she read them, each sentence heavier than the last, stripping away the small illusion of freedom she had enjoyed during the summer.

Arrangements have been made.