Page 9 of The Laird who Craved her

"Wait," Claire said, blinking as she looked at Douglas. "Ye are going out in that? It looks as though the heavens are trying to drown the glen."

"Lass, a bit of Highland rain isnae going to melt me," Douglas said, pulling his hood up over his silver-streaked hair. He gave her a reassuring wink that looked entirely ridiculous beneath his heavy, bushy brows. "Though if I am gone more than an hour, tell the Laird to save me the rest of the ale. He has a habit of drinking the cask dry when he's brooding."

Douglas slipped out into the raging storm, the heavy door slamming shut behind him and rattling the iron latch.

The Laird turned his full attention back to Claire, his broad chest rising and falling with a slow, steady breath. "He’ll find them. Douglas could track a field mouse through a blizzard. If yer people are in those woods, he will bring them to the inn."

She only knew her cousin, whom she loved dearly, but before his handfasting to Beatrice, Leo was very frightening. He had carried that same heavy, absolute authority that made common men bow their heads. But this man… this man felt entirely different.

There was a raw, untamed edge to him that London society could never cultivate.

I claimed a Laird. Not just a warrior, but a bloody chieftain. Of all the stray men in the Highlands, I had to pick the one who probably commands an army.

The man crossed slowly toward the firelight, stopping just on the other side of the hearth, the orange glow illuminating the massive breadth of his shoulders and the thick, dark wool of his MacRae plaid.

He reached out, holding his rough, heavily scarred hands over the low flames to catch the heat. Claire’s eyes tracked the pale lines across his knuckles, scars from blades, from shields, from a life spent in brutal conflict.

"Finn MacRae," he introduced simply, his green eyes reflecting the dancing fire.

Claire’s stomach tightened instantly, a cold coil of dread settling deep in her chest. She knew that name. Every person with an ounce of Highland blood knew that name, even those who spent their winters in the south.

The Devil of the North.

The Highland Laird neighboring clans feared enough to whisper about over dinner tables, the man who had supposedly broken three separate border rebellions with nothing but his clan's vanguard and an iron will. She had even heard stories about him at Leo’s wedding a few months ago, whispered by old women over cups of spiced wine, warning that the MacRae Laird was a man made of flint and ice.

Wonderful.She had escaped a forced marriage to an ancient English lord only to throw herself at the feet of a legendary Highland warlord.

If me father finds out about this, he won't know whether to sue for peace or have me committed to a nunnery.

"Claire Abbot," Claire said carefully, forcing her voice to remain steady, though she could feel a sudden pulse of heat radiating from the hearth, or perhaps from his sheer proximity. "And now that we have exchanged names, Laird MacRae, I suggest we come to an understanding. I am grateful for the rescue, truly. But I am nae a prize to be kept."

"A prize?" Finn repeated, his voice laced with a dry, quiet humor that didn't reach his eyes. "Lass, ye are currently dripping mud onto the landlord's clean floor and shouting at me in me own territory. Ye are many things, but I daenae think anyone would mistake ye for a prize right now."

Claire looked down at her sodden skirts, a stray piece of bright green pine needle sticking directly to her velvet hem. "I'll have ye know this cloak was tailored in London."

"Then London has a lot to answer for," Finn murmured, "considering it doesnae keep out the damp."

"What noblewoman runs through Highland forests alone?" Finn interrupted, his voice dropping an octave as he turned his head to look at her, his sharp gaze cutting through her words before she could formulate a proper retort.

"A clever one," Claire countered, her wit returning as a shield. She tilted her head, her dark curls shifting against her collar. "We got raiders upon us, me Laird. Our carriage was nearly overturned, me driver was fighting for his breath, and an armed man was lunging into the coach. What should I do? Sit quietly and ask him politely to inspect me pedigree?"

"Most women of yer station would have stayed in the coach and prayed," Finn said, his eyes tracking the sharp, defensive movement of her chin.

"Then most women of me station are fools," Claire said flatly. "Prayers are grand, Laird MacRae, but they daenae run very fast when a man with a blade is reaching for yer throat."

Finn studied her silently for a long moment, his green eyes narrowing slightly. His gaze flicked briefly downward, tracking the elegant, expensive lines of the deep blue silk bodice visible beneath her open cloak, noting the fine gold embroidery at the neckline that spoke of highborn wealth. Then, slowly, his eyes drifted back up to her face, lingering on the small scratch on her cheek where the pine branch had cut her, before locking back onto her gray eyes.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy with a strange, sudden mood. Claire felt her breath hitch, her skin tingling under the intense scrutiny. The air between them felt charged, warm and thick, completely at odds with the freezing gale outside.

Why is he looking at me like that? Like he's trying to read the thoughts right out of me head. Christ, it is hot in here.

"English?" Finn asked bluntly, his eyes unblinking.

"Partly."

"Which part matters more?"

The question irritated her instantly, sparking a familiar fire in her chest. She had spent her entire life being told she was too Scottish for London and too English for the hills. "I was raised in London, if that is what ye are asking. Me father is the Duke of Westbrook."