Page 5 of The Laird who Craved her

Lord Westerly.

A man of considerable means.

Considerable years, Claire thought bitterly, her fingers curling into the fabric of her traveling cloak. Nearly twice her age. A widower three times over, with grown children who would resent her the moment she stepped into his house. He was a man known for his cold disposition and his grand London estate, a place where she would be expected to sit quietly, look beautiful, and obey.

A match built entirely around securing control over her inheritance.

Her mother's dowry. The money her father had squandered years ago on gambling debts and bad investments in the south. Money that was never supposed to belong to any husband but her.

"Molly," Claire said quietly, her voice dropping below the rumble of the carriage, "has me father written to ye?"

The maid's hands stilled in her lap. Just for a moment. She looked down at her intertwined fingers, refusing to meet Claire's gaze. "I dinnae ken…"

"Please, Molly. Daenae lie to me. Not about this."

Molly's shoulders sagged, the defensive posture crumbling. "He wished to ken if ye spoke of the arrangement. He sent a rider to the border tavern. He wanted to ken if ye seemed... amenable."

"Amenable," Claire repeated the word, the syllables sharp and unnatural on her tongue.

"He says it is a grand match, Claire," Molly whispered, her voice laced with an old servant's helplessness. "He says Lord Westerly has a grand townhouse in London and a great house in the south. He says ye will want for nothin'."

"Except a life of me own choice. " Claire turned back to the window, the cold glass fogging slightly with her breath.

Amenable.

Like a cow being led to auction.

"I am his daughter, Molly, nae a piece of property to be traded to settle his debts," Claire muttered, her reflection staring back at her with fierce, desperate gray eyes. "I spent me childhood in these hills. I speak the tongue, I know the glens. He wants to lock me in a stone mansion with an old man who looks at me and sees nothing but a ledger."

"The Duke is yer father, lass," Molly said sadly. "The law gives him the right."

"Then the law is wrong."

The carriage lurched suddenly, a violent, jarring motion that threw Claire against the cushioned seat. She caught herself on the window frame, her knuckles turning white, her heart lurching into her throat as the coach tilted dangerously.

"What—"

Shouting erupted outside. A man's voice, her driver’s, raised in alarm. Then another voice, rough and demanding, cutting through the heavy downpour. Then the unmistakable ring of steel being drawn, the sharp clash of swords echoed by the panicked whinnying of the horses.

Nay.

God, please, nay.

Claire's hand found Molly's across the narrow space between them. The maid's fingers were cold and trembling, her round face entirely drained of color.

"Stay quiet," Claire whispered, her instincts kicking in. "Get down beneath the seat."

The carriage lurched again, harder this time, tipping dangerously to one side before righting itself with a sickening crack of splintering wood. Horses screamed in terror, their hooves churning the mud. Men shouted oaths in the rain, the sounds of violence drawing closer to the wooden panels. And then…

The door burst open.

A man filled the frame. Not her driver, or anyone she knew. A stranger with wild eyes and a blade in his hand, and mud spattered across his face. He wore ragged furs and smelled of stale ale and wet wool, his grin revealing rotted teeth.

"Out," he snarled, gesturing with the wet steel. "Move yerselves if ye want to keep yer breath."

Molly screamed.

The sound shattered something inside Claire's chest. Every rational thought fled, scattering like birds before a storm. She grabbed for Molly's hand again, tried to pull her toward the opposite door, but the maid was already moving, driven by pure panic, scrambling out into the rain-slick mud with her skirts tangling around her ankles.