Page 86 of The Laird who Craved her

Douglas had already turned toward the men. "Ride ahead!" Every head lifted. "Get a healer from a nearby clan!"

One of the MacRae warriors was in the saddle before Douglas had finished speaking, disappearing between the trees at a gallop. Douglas looked back at Finn. "I'll finish things here."

Finn barely heard him. He brushed a damp curl away from Claire's forehead, her skin feeling impossibly hot beneath his fingertips.

Nay. Please... Nae now. Nae after finding her. Nae after bringing her back.

He carried her toward his horse. One of the men stepped forward, offering, "Me Laird, let me…"

"Nay." The answer came so sharply that the man stopped where he stood.

Finn adjusted his grip. "I'll carry her." No one argued.

Douglas quietly took the reins while Finn mounted, keeping one arm firmly around Claire as he settled her against his chest. She stirred once, and a soft sound escaped her lips. "...Finn..."

His breath caught. She hadn't opened her eyes or moved beyond that faint whisper, but she had known him. He bent his head until his forehead rested lightly against her hair.

"I'm here." H is voice cracked despite every effort to steady it. "I'm here, Claire."

She didn't answer or stir again, resting only against him with shallow, uneven breathing. For the first time that night, the fear gripping Finn was greater than anything he had felt in the clearing, greater than facing eight armed men, greater than watching steel flash toward him. He could fight men, clans, and wars, but he couldn't fight whatever was stealing Claire from him one fevered breath at a time.

With a gentle touch of his heels, the stallion surged forward, and Finn held her closer as they disappeared into the rain, praying with every stride that they were not already too late.

Later, Finn would struggle to remember how they reached Rosewood. The ride blurred into fragments: the castle gates opening, men shouting from the walls, the frantic pounding of hooves across the courtyard, and someone rushing forward to take his horse.

When hands reached for Claire, he tightened his hold instinctively. "Nay. I've got her." No one argued. He carried her through the keep himself.

Everything else faded into disconnected moments: the healer's voice, boiling water hissing over the fire, fresh linens spread across the bed, and a basin stained pink as mud and blood were washed from Claire's hands.

Her torn sleeve fell away from a shoulder covered in bruises, and the dark mark marred one side of her face. Each glimpse tightened something painfully inside his chest.

He stood aside only long enough for the healer to examine her. The older woman rested one weathered hand against Claire's forehead before pressing gentle fingers beneath her jaw, frowning deeply.

"The fever began before ye reached the castle."

Finn looked up sharply. "From the rain?"

She shook her head. "Shock." Reaching for another cloth, she dipped it into cool water. "Cold. Exhaustion. And likely infection from these cuts."

Finn stared at the angry marks circling Claire's wrists, his jaw clenched. "If I'd found her sooner…"

The healer met his eyes. "That changes nothing now."

"It changes everything." She said nothing more, instead mixing crushed herbs into a steaming cup before handing instructions to one of the servants waiting nearby.

Finn scarcely heard them; his attention never left Claire.

Hours passed, or perhaps only minutes, as time lost all meaning. Someone lit more candles, rain continued tapping softly against the windows, and the fire burned low before another log was added. Claire tossed restlessly beneath the blankets, her breathing never settling.

Finn remained beside the bed, one hand wrapped around hers, unaware of when he had sat down, knowing only that he never stood again.

The chamber door opened quietly, and Douglas stepped inside. "The prisoners have been secured."

Finn nodded once. "The dead?"

"We've sent word to their families."

Silence lingered between them before Douglas looked toward Claire. "Ye should rest."