Page 50 of The Laird who Craved her

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The storm had finally broken by midmorning, leaving the bailey slick and steaming under a pale wash of sun. Claire had spent the better part of an hour pacing the length of her chamber, restless with days indoors, when she found her cloak and made for the door.

"Ye cannae go out there, mistress." Molly planted herself in the doorway, shawl held out like a shield she fully intended to use. "Laird MacRae gave orders."

"Laird MacRae," Claire said, tugging the shawl free, "is nae me keeper."

"He's the Laird, mistress. Everyone in this keep answers to him, down to the dogs in the kennel and the fish they pull from the loch." Molly crossed her arms. "Ye especially, seein' as he'd skin the lot of us if anythin' happened to ye."

"I am only going as far as the lower bailey."

"Ye said that about the kitchens last week, and I found ye in the stables an hour later, feedin' apples to a warhorse twice yer size and near gettin' yer fingers bitten off for the trouble."

"He looked hungry."

"He looked half-wild, mistress, same as ye're lookin' right now." Molly sighed, the fight already draining out of her. "If Laird MacRae catches ye out in this, he'll have me head on a pike, and I've grown rather fond of it where it sits."

"Then I shall tell him I slipped past you while ye were dozing by the fire." Claire wound the wool around her shoulders, already moving for the door. "I only need air that doesnae smell of parchment and woodsmoke."

"The men are trainin' today," Molly called after her, one last attempt. "Nae a place for a lady."

"I've watched men train before."

"Nae like this." Something in Molly's voice made Claire pause with her hand on the latch. "They say the Laird's fightin' like a man possessed."

Claire filed that away, said nothing, offered a small smile, and left. The corridors hummed with restless energy, servants moving faster, voices dropping when she passed. War had a smell — oiled leather, boiled linen, and silent fear. She saw maids folding bandages, a boy hauling a whetstone withoutlooking up. Rain hit her as she pushed through the doors, cold and sudden, flattening her curls. She welcomed it; it was the only honest thing in the castle.

"Lady Claire!" Douglas's voice cut through the mist. He stood near the training yard fence, soaked through, his beard dripping.

"Good morning, Douglas."

"Miserable mornin', more like." He nodded toward the ring, where a dozen men circled and struck at each other through ankle-deep mud. "What brings ye out in this?"

"The library was suffocating me."

"The keep's tense today. Everyone kens it."

"Is that why they're training in a downpour?"

"The Laird means to beat the fear out of them before it can settle." Douglas huffed something that wasn't quite a laugh. "Mind yer step, the stones here are slick as ice."

Claire came to rest against the wooden fence, scanning the churned field, and found him without meaning to, the way her eyes seemed to find him now without any instruction from her at all.

"Shield up, Angus!" Finn's voice rolled across the yard, cutting clean through the rain.

"Me arm's spent, me Laird!"

"Ye think a blade cares if yer arm's spent? Brace yer feet and go again."

He wore a plain linen shirt and kilt, no plaid or leather, soaked by rain until it clung to him. She saw a scar on his shoulder and ribs, signs of a hard life. Her mouth went dry as she watched him move, biting her lip between her teeth and dragging it slowly free. She only realized she'd done it when the cold air made her aware.

"He fights like a man tryin' to outrun somethin'," Douglas said quietly beside her.

"Has he stopped at all since dawn?"

"Nae once."

Guilt settled low in her stomach.He is punishing himself, she thought,and I am the reason why.