Page 89 of The Laird who Craved her

"He willnae leave."

Their voices blurred together until they sounded like distant waves, then silence.

She kept drifting as time lost meaning: minutes, days, years. She no longer knew. Only one thing remained constant…a voice. She couldn't hear the words, only the sound, deep, steady, and familiar.

Finn.

She tried to answer, but nothing came. She reached toward the voice, but it slipped away. Again, she reached farther.

"Finn..."

Darkness swallowed everything.

...

Claire's eyelids felt impossibly heavy. She forced them open one slow inch at a time. The ceiling above her came into focus first, then the carved bedposts, then familiar stone walls…Rosewood.

She blinked.

A chair scraped softly nearby. "Me lady?"

Molly hurried to her side, carefully adjusting the pillows behind Claire's shoulders. "Oh, thank Heaven."

Claire frowned, her throat feeling raw. "Molly?"

Fresh tears sprang into Molly's eyes. "Ye're awake."

Claire looked around the room slowly. Violet had fallen asleep in a chair near the hearth, a book resting forgotten in her lap. Beatrice sat quietly beside the window, her hands clasped together in prayer. Leo leaned against the wall with his arms folded, though the relief on his face betrayed every attempt to appear unconcerned.

Near the window... her father.

He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking older somehow, wearier. Claire stared at him, then at everyone else. Her brow furrowed, because nothing made sense.

She looked back at Molly. "Is this Heaven?"

Leo answered before anyone else could. "I certainly hope nae."

A faint laugh escaped Claire before it dissolved into a cough. Molly quickly offered her a cup of water, and she drank carefully.

The room slowly settled into focus. Everyone was here…everyone.

Her gaze moved from face to face once more, then stopped. The smile faded from her lips.

Finn wasn't there.

A strange ache settled inside her chest, because if this truly were a dream, Finn would have been beside her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The chamber door opened slowly. Claire paused on the threshold, one hand resting against the carved frame while she gathered enough strength to take the next step. The corridor beyond looked exactly as she remembered: stone walls, tall windows spilling warm afternoon light across the floor, and servants moving quietly from one task to another. Everything was familiar. Yet somehow... everything felt new.

"Ye should still be in bed," Molly's voice came from behind her.

Claire glanced over her shoulder to find Molly carrying a folded shawl while another woman followed beside her with the patient smile of someone who had already lost an argument. It was Douglas's wife, Margaret.

"I've spent nearly a week in bed," Claire protested. "I can walk to the great hall."

Margaret folded her arms. "Aye. Slowly. And with assistance."