Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
"Where have ye taken me?"
The question left Claire’s mouth sharp and demanding, though she could not entirely stop the small tremor beneath her words.
The fire crackled low inside the small, shadowed room of the wayside inn, the orange flames casting long, dancing shadows across the timber walls while storm winds battered the heavy wooden shutters outside.
The air smelled of woodsmoke, wet wool, and the faint, sweet scent of old ale trapped in the floorboards.
Claire stood near the stone hearth, her wet velvet cloak heavy on her shoulders, dripping rainwater in steady, slow pools across the dark wood. Her heart was still hammering against her ribs, a wild, frantic rhythm that had not slowed since she fled the carriage.
Across the small room, the two Highlanders occupied the opposite side of the space, their massive frames casting imposing silhouettes against the low ceiling. The older, bearded one stood near the heavy oak door, his hand resting casually on his belt, his eyes watchful but not entirely unkind.
But the larger one…
He stood in the center of the room, unbuckling his wet leather sword belt with steady, deliberate movements.
He was like a predator deciding whether to eat her or not, his movements entirely fluid, his focus completely locked onto her.
Every breath he took seemed to fill the small space, narrowing the distance between them without him even taking a step.
"This is absurd," Claire snapped, crossing her arms tightly over her chest to hide the way her hands were shaking.
She forced herself to meet his piercing green eyes, refusing to let him see the sheer terror gripping her belly.
"I thanked ye already for dispersing those men.
Quite properly, I believe. There is no need to keep me under lock and key. "
"Aye," the large Highlander said calmly.
He set his heavy broadsword onto the sturdiest table by the wall, the iron pommel hitting the wood with a dull, echoing thud. Slowly, he began removing his leather gloves, pulling at each finger with agonizing precision, his gaze never once wavering from her face.
"And ye also told armed raiders ye were me wife."
Claire lifted her chin stubbornly, her shoulders squaring beneath her damp cloak. She refused to apologize for surviving. "I was trying to save me life…"
“It worked.”
"It did," the older, bearded warrior near the door chimed in, a sudden, broad grin breaking through his silver-streaked beard. "And a fine performance it was, lass. The way ye pointed at him, I nearly took off me own bonnet and offered me congratulations to the happy couple."
"Douglas," the large one warned, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that cut the older man’s amusement short.
Douglas merely chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I'm just sayin', Finn. She has a fierce tongue for a bit of a thing. Most lasses faint when the steel comes out. She just invents a marriage."
Claire glared between them, her irritation momentarily overriding her fear. "I dinnae see either of ye offering a better suggestion while four men with rusted claymores were tracking me through the pines."
That dangerous, almost-smile appeared again briefly on Douglas’s face, a subtle twitch at the corner of his firm mouth that vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving his features as unreadable as chiseled stone.
"It worked," he agreed, his low voice washing over her skin like a physical touch.
He stepped a fraction closer, the firelight catching the sharp line of his jaw and the damp gleam of his dark hair.
"But a lie spoken in a crowded market square doesnae stay in the square, lass. Half that village heard ye declare yerself me wife. Did ye think they would simply forget it by suppertime?”
"I did what I had to do to save me skin," she insisted, taking a half-step forward, the desperation finally cracking through her noble facade. "And I have to go back to the forest. I have to make sure Molly and our driver are safe."
She looked between the two men, her gray eyes wide and pleading now, the anger melting into genuine panic. "Please. Molly has been with me since I was a child. She was terrified. If those men found her…"
"Douglas," the large Highlander said, not looking back.
He gave the older man a nod of sorts, a silent command that required no elaboration. The bearded warrior immediately straightened from the door, his expression turning serious as he checked the dirk at his hip.
"Aye, me Laird," Douglas said, his rough voice completely obedient.
Claire froze slightly, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth as the title echoed in her mind.
Laird? God.
"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.