Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
The door of the inn’s lodge banged open, and Molly came scrambling over the threshold like a panicked hen, her bonnet hanging by a single ribbon and her apron coated in gray river silt. The storm had finally passed, but the true tempest was currently colliding in the center of the small room.
"Lady Claire! Oh, praise the saints, ye are breathing!" Molly wailed, her arms flinging wide as she threw her entire body into her mistress.
Claire didn't even flinch at the impact. She met the older woman halfway, her slender arms wrapping tightly around the maid's shoulders. She buried her face in Molly's damp cloak, her shoulders hitching with a deep, shuddering breath of pure relief.
"I am well, Molly. I am perfectly well," Claire whispered, her voice thick but steady. She pulled back slightly, her hands framing the maid's weathered face, her gray eyes searching for injuries. "Are ye hurt? Did those wretched men touch ye?"
"Nay, lamb, nay," Molly sobbed, wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve. "The big, silver-bearded one found me hiding in a hollow log. I thought he was another raider come to finish me, but he just offered me a piece of dried beef and told me to stop squawking."
Finn stood by the hearth, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the display. His eyes, cold and assessing, traced the line of Claire’s back.
She was terrified, he realized, watching the tight knot in her shoulders finally unravel.
She stood there and threatened me, defied me, and bargained with me like a seasoned diplomat, all while her heart was bleeding for her servant.
It was an unsettling thought. He preferred his English noblewomen to be simple, fragile, and easy to read. This one was currently crawling her way under his skin, her resilience irritating him more than her lies ever could.
"The driver’s gone to repair the carriage fully," Douglas announced, walking past the weeping women without a care. He dropped heavily into a bench by the table, helping himself to a thick crust of barley bread. He chewed loudly, pointing the crust toward the window. "The axletree took a beating in the ditch, but he’ll have it patched enough to crawl. The weather’s clear enough now.
We should reach Rosewood Castle before nightfall. "
Finn nodded, his movements blunt and efficient as he stepped away from the fire. He picked up his broadsword, sliding the heavy iron hanger into his leather harness. He needed this journey to be over. No, he needed this woman out of his sight before he did something entirely reckless.
MacSween's cousin, he reminded himself, the thought a cold splash of water to his senses.
Leo MacSween’s flesh and blood. I had better keep her safe. And I had better keep me hands as far as possible from her, if I daenae want another bloody war at me gates.
He looked over at her. Claire had stepped away from her maid, her dark, wavy hair escaping her hood completely now, a wild halo around a face that was far too pale..
She caught him staring. Instead of looking down like a proper English lady, she held his gaze, her jaw setting in that stubborn, beautiful line he was already beginning to recognize.
"Well, Laird MacRae?" she asked, her tone dripping with a sweet, dangerous sarcasm. "Are we to stand here admiring the floorboards all day, or do ye intend to escort me to me new prison?"
"It isnae a prison, lass," Finn rumbled, stepping into her space to retrieve his gloves from the mantelpiece.
He leaned down slightly, letting his shadow fall over her.
"It is me home. And if ye intend to survive the council tomorrow, I suggest ye lose that sharp tongue before we cross the drawbridge. "
"Oh, me tongue is perfectly behaved when I am surrounded by gentlemen," she shot back, her eyes flashing with gray fire. "I shall let ye know when I find one."
Douglas choked on his bread, letting out a loud, booming laugh that echoed off the rafters. "Christ, Finn, she has ye there. I like her. Can we keep her?"
"Move yer boots, Douglas," Finn growled, his temper flaring for no damn reason at all.
By the time they resumed their travel, it felt like the longest day of his life.
The storm had left the air crisp and biting, the sky like crushed velvet beneath the pale sunlight.
Finn rode his great black stallion at the front of the small procession, his eyes scanning the ridges, his fingers resting casually on the hilt of his blade.
Douglas seemed determined to test his patience entirely. The man would not stop talking since they had left the inn. Claire and Molly were conversing easily with the old man-at-arms as he trotted his horse alongside the wooden frame.
"And ye say the Laird drank an entire cask of elderberry wine by himself?" Claire's voice carried clearly through the crisp air.
"Aye, Lady Claire!" Douglas yelled back cheerfully. "Two winters ago, when the frost closed the passes. He sat in the high hall, brooding like a gargoyle, swallowing pints until his eyes turned red. We thought he’d gone mad."
"He isnae mad, Douglas," Molly chimed in from the dark interior. "He’s just sour. Me grandmother used to say men with jaws like that have a sickness in the liver."
Claire laughed softly.
The sound of her laugh irritated Finn entirely, mostly because it reached him far too easily. It was a bright, musical sound, completely unaffected, cutting through the heavy clatter of hooves and iron wheels.
Why is she laughing? h e thought, his knuckles whitening over his reins.
She’s a ruined woman heading toward a den of wolves, and she’s spending her afternoon gossiping with me vanguard.
He pulled his stallion back, dropping his pace until he was riding parallel to the carriage door. He glared down at Claire through the open window.
"If ye have finished dissecting me character with me man," Finn said flatly, "perhaps ye could remember that ye are supposed to be mourning the fact that ye are bound to a brute."
Claire leaned her elbow on the window frame, resting her chin in her palm.
The small scratch on her cheek was red against her skin, but she looked entirely unbothered.
"I've survived the men who came at me on that road, and a three-hour sermon by the Archbishop himself.
I daresay I'll survive ye as well, Laird MacRae. "
"Lass," Finn warned, his voice dropping into that dangerous register.
"And besides," she continued, her eyes dropping briefly to the massive span of his shoulders before rising back to his face, "Douglas tells me ye are actually quite dull when ye arenae growling at people.
He says ye spend most of yer nights reading old ledgers and complaining about the price of grain. "
"I am managing a territory," Finn snapped.
"Ye manage a territory with the temperament of a man twice yer size," she corrected smoothly, "which I imagine takes considerably more patience than swinging a sword ever did."
Douglas let out another roar of amusement, slapping his thigh. "A solicitor! By the saints, Finn, I am writing that on yer shield before the next raid."
"Keep yer eyes on the road, Douglas, before I put me boot through yer teeth," Finn growled, kicking his horse slightly ahead to escape her.
They passed a small brewery village nestled beside the hills, a cluster of low stone cottages with thick thatch roofs.
The workers waved at them as they hauled the heavy oak barrels from the cellars stopped and waved toward them, their bare arms gleaming with sweat despite the chill, while grey smoke curled warmly from the stone chimneys.
Douglas shouted greetings to the brewmaster.
Inside the carriage, Claire and Molly stared wide-eyed through the window. They took in the rugged beauty of the village, the rough stone walls, and the children playing with wooden hoops in the mud.
She looks like she belongs here, a rogue thought drifted into Finn’s mind.
Then, the thought died.
Finn suddenly slowed his horse, his entire body going perfectly rigid in the saddle.
Every instinct inside him sharpened in an instant. The easy banter between Douglas and the women faded into a low hum in the back of his mind. The air felt heavier, colder. The hairs along the back of his neck rose, a familiar, electric warning that had saved his life in a dozen separate ambushes.
He looked up toward the ridge line above the village. The heather was thick there, dark green and purple, broken by massive gray boulders. Nothing moved. No birds flew from the brush.
Too quiet, he thought.
He dropped his hand slowly to his side, his fingers wrapping around the leather grip of his sword. He didn't draw the steel, nae yet, but he squeezed his thighs against his stallion’s flanks, turning the beast slightly until he was blocking the carriage door from the open slope.
"Douglas," he said quietly, his voice a low, hard hiss that carried only to the man beside him.
Douglas straightened immediately, the humor vanishing from his weathered face as if it had never been there. His hand dropped to his own belt, his sharp eyes instantly scanning the tree line ahead. "Aye, me Laird?"
"We’re being followed."