Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
"Icannae go back."
The words left Claire's mouth before she could stop them, swallowed almost instantly by the rattling of the carriage wheels and the relentless drum of rain against the roof.
Molly, seated across from her, did not seem to hear.
She was too busy chattering about the months they had spent at MacSween lands, the handfasting, the celebrations, the way Violet MacSween, her cousin, had cried during the vows, and tried to pretend she had not.
Claire watched her maid's hands flutter as she re-tied the linen ribbons of a small traveling basket, her round face bright with the lingering excitement of the journey.
"Did ye see the size of the venison at the feast?" Molly pressed a hand to her chest dramatically, her dark eyes wide. "I've never seen anythin' like it. And the music! I thought me heart would burst from dancin'. Even the old men were flinging themselves about the hall like lads."
"Aye," Claire said.
The word tasted hollow.
Outside the window, the Highlands blurred past, green and gray and endless, shrouded in the kind of rain that seeped into a person's bones and stayed there.
Claire pressed her palm to the cold glass and watched the hills disappear behind them.
She was a striking woman of medium height, her dark, wavy hair partially escaping her velvet hood, and her gray eyes clouded with an anxiety she could barely contain.
I cannae go back.
“Lady Claire?” Molly’s voice was a steady hum against the rhythmic clatter of the iron-shod wheels.
Something about the fiddler from the western glens who had played until his bow frayed.
Something about the way the candlelight had caught Violet's hair during the handfasting ceremony, making the gold thread in her veil gleam. Something about…
Claire blinked, pulling her hand away from the chilly glass. "I'm sorry. What did ye say?"
Molly's expression softened, the animated joy fading from her features.
The maid was not young, thirty-four now, with threads of silver beginning to show in her dark hair and lines around her eyes that came from a lifetime of worry.
She smoothed the front of her plain gray wool kirtle, looking at Claire.
She had been Claire's mother's maid before the illness took her. Had stayed after, as promised, when Claire's mother had gripped her hand on that terrible bed and whispered Promise me ye willnae leave her.
"I said," Molly repeated gently, leaning forward to rest a comforting hand near Claire’s knee, "ye look as though ye've seen a ghost. Ye've been staring at the heather for miles without speaking a single word, lass."
Claire almost laughed.
A ghost.
Nay. Something worse.
Reality.
The letter had arrived three days before she was meant to leave MacSween lands.
Her father's seal, unmistakable in its thick red wax, had felt like a death warrant.
The words had blurred together as she read them, each sentence heavier than the last, stripping away the small illusion of freedom she had enjoyed during the summer.
Arrangements have been made.
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.
"Molly! Stay close!" Claire cried, lunging after her.
The raiders were circling now. Claire saw them through the open door, three of them, maybe four, their faces obscured by hoods and shadow, their weapons dark with rain.
One of them laughed as Molly ran, a low, ugly sound that made Claire's blood run cold.
They were tearing through the baggage at the back of the coach, throwing linens and boxes into the dirt.
I have to move.
I have to…
She did not think.
She fled.
Her boots hit the mud with a heavy splash.
Her skirts tangled in her fists, the heavy, wet velvet weighing her down as she tore away from the path.
Branches tore at her sleeves and snatched at her hair as she plunged into the dense forest, driven by nothing but the desperate animal need to survive.
Behind her, the men shouted, realizing their prize was escaping.
They were not far enough, never far enough, their heavy footsteps bouncing through the trees like hounds on a scent.
"She's heading for the ridge!" a man roared behind her.
Faster.
Her lungs burned with every breath of icy air.
Faster.
A sharp pine branch caught her across the cheek, cutting the skin. She barely felt it.
Faster.
The trees began to thin, the dense pines giving way to broader clearings. Light filtered through the canopy, gray and weak, but light. Claire pushed harder, her legs screaming with exhaustion, her heart pounding so loud in her ears that she could hear nothing else of the pursuit.
And then…
She stumbled into a clearing.
A village market, small and scattered with low stone huts and timber stalls.
Thank God.
She opened her mouth to scream for help, to raise the alarm to the small crowd of villagers scattered among the sheep pens.
And found herself staring directly at two mounted Highland warriors who sat astride two massive warhorses near the center of the square.
Claire froze, her breath catching entirely.
The first warrior was unremarkable— broad, bearded, with watchful eyes that swept over her once and seemed to catalog everything from her torn cloak to the mud on her face. But the second…
The second commanded every ounce of her attention.
He was a massive man, his shoulders straining against a dark cloak that dripped with rainwater. Black hair brushed his collarbones, damp and wild. A pale scar cut across one sharp cheekbone, standing out against his tanned, rugged skin. And his eyes… Green.
The color of emeralds. The color of the forest after a storm, of something ancient and dangerous and alive.
He stared at her.
Not with surprise, exactly. More like... assessment. As though she were a puzzle he had not expected to find and had not yet decided whether to solve. He didn't move a muscle, his large hand resting casually on the cantle of his saddle.
Behind her, the raiders burst into the clearing, their boots skidding on the wet stones, their breathing heavy and ragged.
Claire's mind moved faster than it ever had in her life. She knew what happened to unprotected women caught in the middle of clan rivalries. She needed a shield, and she needed it immediately.
She spun toward the warriors, pointed directly at the larger one, the green-eyed one, and summoned every ounce of confidence she had ever possessed, standing straight despite her trembling knees.
"That's right," she declared breathlessly, her voice ringing clear across the market square. "This is me husband. And he is the Highland warrior who will kill every one of ye if ye come closer."
Silence.
The raiders hesitated, their weapons dropping an inch as they looked from the lone woman to the two towering figures on horseback.
The bearded warrior beside the green-eyed one raised an eyebrow. His mouth twitched, caught somewhere between surprise and amusement, his eyes darting toward his companion.
But the larger one...
He simply stared.
Cold… Silent… Unreadable.
Claire's heart hammered against her ribs, the tension in the square stretching until it felt ready to snap.
Please.
Please play along.
I am beggin' ye.
The green-eyed warrior dismounted. The motion was fluid and entirely effortless for a man of his immense size. His dark cloak shifted as he drew his broadsword, the heavy steel catching the dull gray light, revealing the distinct colors of the wool beneath.
MacRae.
Claire knew that tartan. Everyone knew that tartan. It belonged to the fiercest clan in the western valleys, men who fought with absolute brutality.
One of the raiders muttered something, a curse, maybe a prayer, and took a hasty step back into the shadow of the tree line. "We want no trouble with the MacRaes," the man grunted.
The green-eyed warrior did not move. Did not speak. Simply stood there with his sword in his hand and his eyes fixed on the raiders like a wolf deciding which throat to tear out first. His absolute silence was far more terrifying than any shouted threat.
One by one, the raiders backed away, melting back into the safety of the deep forest until the sound of their retreating footsteps died away.
Claire's knees nearly gave out from the sheer rush of relief.
Thank God.
She turned to the green-eyed warrior, her breath still ragged, and summoned a smile that felt like it might crack her face in half, trying to regain her noble composure.
"Thank ye kindly," she said, taking a small step backward toward the path.
The warrior did not step aside.
He stood directly in front of her, close enough that she could see the individual scars on his large hands, the dark stubble along his sharp jaw, and the way his wet hair curled against his collar.
His companion had dismounted now as well, circling slowly to block the opposite direction, his hand resting on his own dirk.
Claire's stomach tightened, the relief vanishing instantly.
What have I done?
"Now kindly let me go," she said, her voice wavering slightly.
The warrior's mouth twitched.
It was not quite a smile. More like a crack in a stone wall, a brief glimpse of something dangerous beneath the surface.
"Nae so fast, lass."
His voice was rough. The kind of voice that scraped across a person's skin like stone dragged across steel.
Molly had vanished somewhere in the chaos behind her, swallowed by the tree line, and there had been no time to look back. Claire told herself she would find her again, that Molly was too stubborn and too quick to have been caught, but the not-knowing sat like a stone in her chest all the same.
Claire's spine went rigid.
The warrior was still staring at her. The same way he had stared at the raiders. Like she was prey. Like she was something to be hunted.
"I may have other plans for ye," he said.