Page 68 of The Laird who Craved her

"What?" Molly grinned as she helped settle the fresh linen chemise over Claire's shoulders. "Ye were covered head to toe in spots and insisted on telling everyone ye still looked beautiful."

"I did nae," Claire argued, laughing despite herself.

"Oh, ye most certainly did," Molly countered. "Ye were eight, and wonderfully dramatic."

The laughter slowly faded as Molly reached for Claire's stays, lacing them carefully and pausing every few pulls.

"Too tight?" Molly asked.

"Nay," Claire answered softly.

"Hm," Molly hummed, loosening them slightly anyway. "I have watched ye breathe since ye were in nappies. I ken when ye are pretending."

"I swear ye hear everything." Claire smiled softly.

"I do," Molly confirmed.

The heavy petticoats came next, followed by the thick wool traveling gown. Molly worked with practiced ease, smoothing each layer as though the simple act of dressing Claire could somehow mend her broken heart.

When she moved behind her with the hairbrush, Claire closed her eyes, letting the steady strokes through her dark waves comfort her. Her mother had brushed her hair exactly this way, and after she died, Molly had never stopped.

Neither of them spoke, as they simply did not need to. The quiet rhythm of the brush, the warmth of the fire, and Molly's gentle hands spoke far more than words ever could.

Finally, Molly gathered Claire's long hair into a neat, practical braid.

"There," Molly said softly.

Claire looked into the looking glass, noting her eyes were still slightly swollen from crying, yet she looked steadier. She was not healed, but she was steady enough to face the courtyard. Molly rested both warm hands on her shoulders.

"Yer mother would be proud of ye," Molly murmured.

"I miss her," Claire said, her throat tightening instantly. "So very much."

"I ken," Molly nodded. "I miss her too."

For a long moment, neither woman moved, until Molly squeezed her shoulders gently.

"Come now," Molly encouraged, reaching for Claire's cloak and draping it around her with the same care she had shown every winter for years. "Whatever waits beyond that door, ye will nae face it alone."

"I have never thanked ye," Claire whispered, covering Molly's hand with her own as the maid fastened the heavy clasp beneath her chin.

"There has never been any need," Molly assured her.

"There is," Claire insisted, her voice breaking slightly. "Ye stayed."

"I promised yer mother I would." Molly's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "And I intend to keep that promise for the rest of me days."

Molly opened the chamber door first, allowing the familiar sounds of Rosewood Castle to drift in immediately. Voices echoed from somewhere below, heavy boots crossed the stone corridors, and a door opened and shut farther down the passage. Life continued on, completely indifferent to the agonizing ache sitting heavily inside Claire's chest.

"Ready?" Molly asked quietly.

"Let us go." Claire drew a quiet breath.

Molly slipped Claire's heavy satchel over her own shoulder before wrapping the traveling cloak more securely around her mistress.

Together they stepped into the corridor, the ancient castle feeling different this morning.

Servants passing through the halls greeted her with warm smiles and wishes for safe travels, and Claire returned each greeting with quiet kindness. Every heartfelt farewell settled a little deeper inside her heart, reminding her that they had made her feel welcome and as though she truly belonged here. That simple kindness hurt almost as much as leaving Finn.